Beware the Trojan Horse
by Magess
Summary: Continued from Look in My Tormented Eye and Dark Mirror, set between 5x01 and 5x02, an entire town succumbs to a terrible illness, and while Dean and Sam investigate, Sam must also deal with monster he has become. Note: NotTrickster!Gabriel 10 chapters
1. Chapter 1

In a little alcove between the broken washing machines and rusting skeletons of old Volvos, Sam huddled in on himself and paced. He shifted in his hoodie and dug his fists into the pockets with agitation. His steps were wearing a ditch into the dirt. Back at the hospital, Bobby still wasn't talking or making eye contact, which made Sam want to scream half the time and sob the other. Dean sat in the hospital room or in the waiting area, just as silent. It was as if the two of them were waiting, but neither knew for what. Just anything. Doom or grace. The next thing to break.

Sam had brought coffee. Dinner. Only to watch the coffee grow cold and the fries congeal, while his brother pretended to read a magazine. Dean could avoid like Superman could fly—natural and unstoppable.

Sam gave up eventually, 'cause even he had his limits, and it was either get the fuck out of there or put his fist through the vending machine in the hall. Judiciously, he'd gone outside, meandering aimlessly at first and then seeking the broken parts of town like kindred. Warehouses that looked bombed out. Restaurants and tenements that were desolate and black. Of course, he found a junkyard—a land of discarded, ruined things. That was hours ago—time that ticked by and no one came looking. No one called. No one cared. And he'd be lying to himself if any of that surprised him one damn bit.

Hours passed. Hours in which the gaping pit in his stomach gnawed away at him, made him ache in his bones—a permanent, frostbitten empty space where the heat of his anger and vengeance had been. Hours in which he'd been sending cries up towards disinterested stars, growing hoarse with the cool September air.

His throat burned and closed in on itself, struggling to keep everything in. One good shake and he might explode, a broken bottle of so much bitter beer.

So, Sam paced. Tense and tearing, almost shuddering. Emptiness he couldn't contain scratched at his edges. It bit the tips of his fingers, the tip of his tongue, and _longed_.

Eventually, Sam dropped down onto a bench made of cinder blocks and bumpers.

He heaved a tight, wheezed, sigh that was full of anguish and then bent over, holding his head in his hands. _End of the world. God damned, __Lucifer__._ Some things were too big even for his brain, and the actual real-life fucking devil? Yeah, that was one of those things. His stupid, horror show life used be all werewolves and bloody murder and now? Now everything was mind-blowingly, world-breakingly _epic_, and if there was going to _be _a future history of the world, he'd go down as the last great MacBeth, whose frickin' _name _can't even be spoken or somebody bites it.

Sam doubled over, tightly gripping the back of his neck and pulling himself inwards, as though the chasm inside of him could be compressed, the edges stuck together and glued if only he could crush himself small enough. He was too big in the world, his presence unbearable. _God. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. _Unconsciously, he rocked. So much was wrong, so much. He couldn't remember what _right_ felt like. The power had carved a place for itself deep and wide within him, and now it was _gone_. The rush and fulfillment it delivered was nothing more than a potent, sweet, tangy memory. The self he recognized nowhere among the hazed snippets of standing at the edges of graves, fires blazing.

He listened, and the junkyard was quiet.

He sighed again, sagged, and scuffed his feet through the dust. It wasn't fair feeling sorry for himself, but he couldn't stop.

A sharp wind cut through the lot out of nowhere, whistling among the scraps. With it came the damp, heavy air of a New England harbor and the scent of wet, fallen leaves. And then a force that was both familiar and foreign rolled across Sam's senses. He jerked as sudden inklings of fear skittered over his heart and sent it racing, shivered at the aura of power and electricity that sparked gooseflesh up his arms.

He snapped his head up and stared, eyes wide, lips parting in awe. Something cool, between relief and terror, slipped down his spine. His pulse hammered at his temples. A figure stalked forward in the darkness, limbs moving with ease, grace, and the assured calm of a lion sliding between tall grasses.

_Gabriel _. . . Sam's throat tightened against saying his name, though he wanted to. He wanted to feel the solid sound of it in his mouth. Speak it with reverence and thanks because _Jesus_ he actually showed. Foul things, though, cannot pray, and the word broke apart with sorrow.

The archangel approached, the white of his T-shirt gleaming in the low light. Black motorcycle jacket and jeans made him a vision of contrasts. He stopped a few feet from where Sam sat and gazed down at him, serene and curious. Above, winged somethings flapped through the air unseen. A barn owl screamed long and loud from a place over Sam's shoulder.

Transfixed, heart thumping so hard he rocked with it, the human simply stared. "Didn't think you were gonna come," Sam eventually squeezed his voice past the lump in his throat and sat up. The light of the moon was just enough that he could make out the angel's expression and catch a glint from his eyes. They gave away nothing. For a second, all Sam could feel was the stormy charge in the air and the blood rushing through his body, because even just standing there in casual repose Gabriel was the embodiment of uncanny, and part of him would never not be frightened by that.

"Castiel's made you difficult to find." The archangel's tone was mild, matter-of-fact.

A silent, uneasy laugh jostled Sam's frame and his hand rubbed lightly over the spot on his chest that still stung. "Yeah. I tried to give you the address," he offered, unsure if prayers were the angelic form of e-mail. Unsure if he'd had any right to be forming prayers and making requests of _anyone _for _anything_, anyway. But his world consisted of a pretty small group of people when you got down to it, and he didn't see what he could possibly lose by trying.

Gabriel's lips twitched, casting strange shadows that Sam couldn't quite take his eyes off of. "We don't see the world the same as you. Geography is"—his gaze searched the junkyard a moment—"a matter of perspective."

Sam blinked up at him. "Oh."

"And I was a little busy," Gabriel added and shrugged. A smirk touched the corner of his finely wrought mouth.

Busy. "Yeah . . ." Sam shifted and looked away, the pain in his chest flaring with new vigor. _Hunting demons, chasing Lucifer_. _Fixing my mistake, because that's all I ever do and all anyone around me ever does._ Gabriel was just being kind by not saying it out loud, but he didn't have to. Sam took an unsteady breath, and somehow the air just seemed to slice into his throat. Maybe this had been a bad idea.

There was the creak of leather, and Sam glanced up quickly. The archangel was studying him, arms crossed. Waiting, obviously, because he had just come halfway across spiritual Whoville for . . . what, exactly?

Sam swallowed again and forced himself to look up from the dirt. His eyes traced the angled, perfect features of Gabriel's face. Strong chin, high cheeks. He tried to steel himself for it, to prepare, gird his loins or something, but their gazes met like the click of a lock, and it felt like sudden falling. A blow to the chest and pins on his skin. For a moment, Sam forgot to breathe and simply stared, deep and spiraling, into the angel's eyes. It was like getting lost. More. Worse. Like losing everything, every lie and shield and compliment undeserved. Like being flayed . . . and judged . . . and fucking _torn_—

"Sam?" Gabriel's golden, warm voice held concern as he came closer and knelt on the ground, bringing them face to face.

Gentle fingers touched Sam's forehead and cheek lightly, in a way someone in his life must have done once because it felt so perfectly familiar. He couldn't imagine what expression the angel was trying to smooth away. But Gabriel brushed his skin with care and tried again to meet his eyes.

Sam let him, briefly, but the rending ache in his body pulsed and he shut his eyes against it. Squeezed them tight and shrank away in denial as his edges grew ragged, his surface fragile. There was too much to _carry_, too much.

"Sam." More alarmed this time, Gabriel took him by the shoulders.

He tried to retreat from the pressure of those hands, but they held, gentle and inescapable. "Gabriel, I—" The words burst out in a phlegmy gasp, shocking Sam with how much they sounded like begging. His eyes flashed open. He drew unsteady breaths and searched the archangel's concerned face. _I need . . . I . . ._

"What?" With a tenderness that Sam didn't deserve, Gabriel stroked the side of his face and for the briefest moment Sam pressed into the touch before denying himself a small comfort best spent elsewhere.

"I . . ." _Don't have the words for this. Please make it stop._ "Please . . ." he managed to say, his voice small. The emptiness yawned, and it was like thorns piercing his lungs, bending his ribs until they cracked. _Blood._ He could taste it still. Levees stacked high with the things he _should_ do, strained, burst. He was going crazy in slow motion, rivets popping under the strain of a bad design.

Gabriel frowned and held him steady. "I don't understand," he said carefully, angling to hold Sam's gaze.

Sam shook his head in confusion, and a little panic. He'd learned. He _had _learned, and he was sorry. But empty . . . empty. And he just couldn't be empty anymore. "Please, I . . . I need—" He gasped in air and searched, searched for what came next. "I need—" His lower lip quivered, and he took the angel's jacket in his hands, pleading for assistance, for suggestions, for anything. Gabriel, who he hadn't seen in weeks. Who had eyes, deep and dark, lips, soft and wet. Wings that were the glory of God.

Memories relived at the pace of dreams flashed through him. Skin and sunsets. Cool silk whispers of feathers. That feeling that Gabriel's every joyful sound was of his making. That he was powerful and pure and alive and _good_. It was stupid, but . . .

"Please," he breathed. His face flushed, but he held the angel's impossible gaze. "Please, I want to touch them."

It wasn't quite a question. He clenched his jaw against the embarrassment of asking, of needing anything so fucking much that he was basically down here in the dirt begging for it. But ever since he saw them he'd wanted to and then he _had_, and . . . a man could get addicted to something like that.

Gabriel looked unsure at first, wariness coloring his dark eyes. Sam clung to him harder, hoping that maybe Gabriel found desperation sexy, 'cause that Sam had in _spades_. Then slowly, a benevolent grin spread over the archangel's moonlit face. The sound that he made was, indeed, a laugh, but of a charmed quality. Sam let out a breath.

"That can be arranged," Gabriel said. Sam's hands on his jacket went slack, and Gabriel looked down at them, thoughtful for a moment. Then, "Is there somewhere you'd like to see?"

Sam laughed unexpectedly, and it cracked the painful binding around his chest, filling him with relief like cool water. He hadn't laughed in . . . Shit, when you couldn't remember, it was a long-ass time. It felt good. "You know, you don't _have _to whisk me off to exotic locations," he replied in hushed tones. It was hard, though, to deny how fucking fantastic that could be.

The angel shrugged. "It's nothing. A thought to grant a wish. Why shouldn't I, if I can?"

Sam grinned lightly, though his look was serious. "Because you're not a genie."

A sound of amusement and agreement passed into the space between them. It took Sam a second to realize that that was all the witty rejoinder he was going to get. Another second to register that Gabriel was watching, patiently waiting for a reply.

Sam cleared his throat. "Well,"—he let the jacket go, glanced down sheepishly at the dirt and then back—"always kinda wanted to see the Amazon, you know? Discovery Channel?" He laughed a little at himself. "God, I'm a nerd."

Gabriel's grin broadened into a dazzling smile, and he pushed himself to standing. Sam followed, jumping up from the fender bench and digging his hands into his pockets so he wouldn't scrub them anxiously on his jeans.

"Ready?"

Sam quirked an eyebrow, chuckling nervously, which was stupid 'cause he _had _slept with the guy before. "Won't it be dark?"

The archangel glanced up and around at the surrounding night air as though noticing it for the first time. His eyes settled on Sam, and he smirked mischievously. "Not when we get there."

_When? _Sam wanted to say, but before he got the chance to do much of anything, Gabriel reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Reality folded under the pressure of angel wings, and they vanished leaving a stirring of dust in their wake.

XXX

Sam blinked, and somewhere between closing and opening his eyes, he'd been thrust into a fucking _sauna_. The world was suddenly vibrantly green, like every past green was just a rumor. Trees, like the windblown rock arches of Utah grew up and over one another, twining toward the sky. Ferns and flowers hung in the thick air, bending under their own weight. The ground itself was a rough carpet of brown detritus and small moss covered stones. Birds, startled by their sudden appearance, lifted up with a fuffle of squawks and beating wings. Hyacinth macaws and a pair of toucans spiraled up, calling shrill warnings. Somewhere beyond the solid wall of foliage, water rushed over round rocks in search of the river.

"Don't move." Gabriel said sternly as he took his hand from Sam's shoulder and turned away, scanning their new surroundings.

Dutifully, Sam stood stock still, in his heavy jeans. And a sweatshirt. And man was _that_ aptly named. Less than a minute here and a bead of sweat was already creeping down towards his eye. Seriously, the Amazon? What was he thinking? As he watched, Gabriel prowled through the undergrowth, pushing aside leaves the size of car windows and training his eyes on the ground.

"What're you doing?" Sam chanced that talking didn't technically count as moving.

The angel neither paused nor looked back. "Making sure it's safe," he said absently as he moved in a circuitous route. Things small, poisonous, or many legged scattered through the flora. Sam could see leaves bending and shaking. Above him, a branch snapped and dipped, and he decided quite forcefully that he wasn't going to look up.

"Do I wanna know what those were?" he called over his shoulder.

When there was no immediate answer, he started to turn to look, but then Gabriel was behind him, with a hand on his upper arm, chuckling into his ear.

"Most likely not."

"But it's safe now? No snakes?"

Gabriel stepped away toward some dense bushes. "Or spiders, or beetles, or ants."

"Right." Sam gave the rain forest a wary glance. _Paris. Next time someone asks, Paris._

But the truth was, it was gorgeous, and it was everything Planet Earth (_Dammit, Sam, we can't afford Hi-def) _had led him to believe. Moss-coated trees. A canopy of green, filled with birds and darting monkeys. Flowers burst color everywhere. Flaming red Indian Shot, yellow Cat's Claw, purple Princess flowers, and more orchids in more shades than he could possibly name. They hung down from tree branches, and grew up in scattered beds. The air smelled like life: damp, earthy, fragrant, clean. He stepped and turned in wonder, a bit dizzy from looking up so high. He forgot, for a moment, why they were even there.

And then he caught sight of Gabriel, muscled arms crossed lightly over his bared, chiseled chest. His skin gleamed. The light filtering down from above caught in his bleached blond hair and made him look lit with holy fire. He was a Greek sculpture, breathing. Behind him, his wings stretched and flexed. Their unnatural whiteness was fairly blinding against the shade and green. _Fuck_. They were . . . everything Sam remembered. Huge, real, animated with a life and language all their own. Sam's breath came quick and high in his chest as he watched Gabriel stretch one . . . then the other, then flap, making a quick and powerful gust that rolled through the air between them. It tickled Sam's lips, cooled his damp hair.

The archangel canted his head slightly and watched with amusement.

Sam licked his lower lip before he'd even realized it. And fuck it was hot in a rain forest.

"I don't understand your fascination." Gabriel's voice held a smile.

Sam swallowed, his mouth suddenly gone dry. "Me neither," he breathed back. Fascination didn't seem strong enough. How could you roll the way his heart was running a race in his chest, and his legs were going loose, and excitement like heroin was shooting through his veins into a word like _fascination?_ His gaze swept up and down the elegant feathered curves and then he sought the angel's eyes, dark and sparkling as the night sky. He jolted when they connected. Without words Sam pleaded. With a slow nod, Gabriel replied.

In one movement, Sam pulled off both the hoodie and the shirt he wore underneath and let them fall to the ground. Then he kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks, hoping to hell there was nothing too sharp in the dirt. He kept his eyes on Gabriel and felt a thrill when he saw the angel rake him with a gaze that evaluated and approved. Of him. He didn't even know it mattered until it happened, and then he wanted to see it again, that little flare of a look.

Just jeans and boxers now. Sam glanced around the little clearing they were in; there was nothing but ferns, flowers, and trees. Hot air. And the _beatbeat _of his heart drumming in his chest. He could feel his pulse in his hands, in his tongue.

Sweat slipped down his spine, and Sam frowned at the tickle of each slithering drop.

"Is something wrong?" Gabriel closed the distance between them, looking curious and innocent. He moved into Sam's space like it was his own, quietly dominating.

"No." _You take up all the air._ "I . . ." He reached for the button on his jeans, only to find that Gabriel's hands were there first. And, Jesus . . . since when did . . . the angel was careful not to touch, but his fingers came so damn _close_.

Heat flooded up Sam's neck as his partner pulled his jeans down, slipped his boxers off, aware of each inch of skin as it was revealed. How the hot, dense air made it flush on contact and tingle. Gabriel's face and hands were just fucking _inches_ away. It felt strange and primal, being naked in the wild. Care-free and secretive. Standing, the angel turned his sculpted lips up in a slight smile, teasing, and Sam gave them a longing look. He checked once for permission, for confirmation.

It was just like he remembered. Sam slid a hand around his partner's neck and pulled him close, chest to chest. They aligned perfectly, no dipping or twisting. Sam sought out that pouty lower lip to suck, taste. He planted small kisses, smiled, sighed, and relented when the angel crushed him closer and licked at his lips, demanding entry.

Sam surrendered him this. Not that he could have stopped him anyway, but it felt so damn good to be wanted. _Devour me_. And each electric touch of tongue shook free a piece of the pain, made him forget. He moaned into the angel's mouth, broke free to gasp. Returned.

Gabriel's skin burned. He remembered that. How every place they touched stung with sensation, so he was aware, every second _alive _with the feel of him. A fire barely contained, earth-rending destruction just here, just there, in and under muscle that rolled beneath his hands.

Sam made space between them and splayed his broad hands over Gabriel's chest. He rubbed up . . . down, scored the angel's lip between his teeth, and was rewarded with a sharp, unsteady gasp. _Just like that._ He drew his hands around his lover's sides, down near his waist at first, teasing, pushing his fingers under the waistband of his jeans. Gabriel nipped at him, mapping a trail of small bites and licks along his jaw. He never would have thought an _angel_ could be so needy, hot. _Mmm._

Feathers grazed the backs of Sam's hands as he moved them up, closer, knowing just where he was going and just what it would do, and smiling wickedly.

He stretched his fingers, tickling, and Gabriel arched up against him with a sharp cry—this glorious sound of shock and tender pain that touched Sam's spine and gathered heat in his groin. Already, he could feel the angel starting to shake, and there is no satisfaction in the world that compares. Their bodies pressed together, Sam swept into the crevices beneath the angel's wings, ringing with anticipation. His fingers slipped along hot, wet skin, brushed delicate feathers. Sensitive places, impossible conjunctions of being. Gabriel thrust his wings out as Sam curved a finger into the lower joint. And _shookshookshook_ as the hands moved higher. A light touch to the upper joint and he moaned like it hurt, clutching at Sam's neck, holding himself there as his knees went weak.

Sam nearly toppled from the sudden weight and gripped him tightly.

"Ok?" he asked with a slight husky laugh.

Gabriel panted, drawing deep draughts of air. "I . . . can't . . ."

_Maintain control_. "I know." That was what made it so delicious. Sam kissed him quickly on the cheek and glanced around. "I remember." He drew back enough to catch the archangel's eyes and then looked pointedly at a nearby tree. "Can you lean?"

The angel nodded his agreement, but apparently had his own interpretation of Sam's intentions, because he started reaching for his fly. _Fuck, yes. _But Sam'd spent countless nights dreaming what he'd do with another chance, where to put his hands, his mouth. He caught Gabriel's wrist, and the angel glanced up in confusion.

"Just your wings," Sam breathed and touched his partner's face like he'd never beheld anything quite so stunning.

Gabriel's eyes flashed wide and dark, and he looked at once unfettered, gorgeously desirous, and unless Sam was wrong, apprehensive. He nodded anyway, his golden head catching sunbeams, and moved in silence to set himself obediently against the tree. He leaned his palms against it and spread his feet wide for balance. His wings quivered, swaying and jumping in anticipation. _Oh __fuck me_, Sam thought, and a dozen other things that didn't make it to words. He'd be a liar to deny the warm rush of power that flooded his body when Gabriel acquiesced. He took a moment to simply look and swept his eyes over the broad wings, white and mottled tan. They struck bells in his core, and his breath caught. An angel, no, an _archangel_ was spreading himself wanton and waiting before him. Accepting his touch, trusting his judgment. Not in a million years did he ever deserve a gift like that, and for a brief moment, he doubted he could live up to it. He had to try, though, and was he _ever_ going to fucking try.

An angel's feathers feel like nothing else in Creation. Some nights Sam woke startled from a dream and felt phantom quills against his arms and chest. Sometimes while driving, he daydreamed of an African plain, lowering sunset, and wings of burnished gold. They'd stumbled into it, Sam more so than Gabriel, barreling after his own curiosity. He hadn't expected the raw sexual response, and _really _hadn't expected Gabriel's moans to be such a potent aphrodisiac. But they were, God, and the story he never told anyone was that he wanted more.

His hands ached to touch, just throbbing with emptiness. Hell, _all _of him throbbed, beating with his quickened pulse. Sam pressed his bare body up against Gabriel's ass, still concealed in jeans, just so he would know how hard he was. Just from this, just from watching. Gabriel pressed back with a small frustrated grunt, and if Sam hadn't been about to fuck him, he'd have wanted to anyway just for that.

He started at the crests, running his fingers down and out as far as they could reach. Light, quick pets, almost soothing. Gabriel rolled his head and rocked gently to the rhythm of the massage, their thighs touching. Sam grinned, biting his lower lip, and concentrated on the sensation of skin on feathers.

He moved lower. With easy pressure, Sam threaded his fingers between the coverts. They slid through his hands like sharp silk, a cool prickling that touched his nerves and made his stomach flutter. He squeezed lightly, dragging on the shafts.

Gabriel gasped once, twice, and let out a soft moan as the feathers slipped through.

Sam felt his dick pulse at the sound, and the fluttering turned to heat. Liquid, mobile, sweet fire energy poured into his body. He did it again, a little bit faster, a little more roughly. It was the pressure, he learned. The right grip, the right tug and Gabriel gasped in pleasured pain.

Sam hunted many things, and now he hunted this. He won small, animal sounds, long, low, aching groans that turned his blood to fire. He couldn't recall any lover so _vocal_, so unashamed and open.

The rough fabric of Gabriel's jeans rubbed against him as the angel swayed in an unconscious motion. Sam inhaled sharply at the friction, ground against him on instinct, and then pulled away from the temptation. Gabriel lurched to follow. The message was clear in the bow of his back and the arch of his neck: more.

More, Sam let feathers slide through his fingers, burning with icy fire.

More, panting, he shifted back to make space.

More, he hooked an arm around his lover's midsection and lowered his mouth over the small of his back. Blew lightly on the sweat-slicked skin, and heard a smile in the sound Gabriel made.

A kiss. A lick. Sam burned a trail up towards the angel's left wing. His tongue touched on the curve of the lower joint, and Gabriel stiffened, a surprised warble passing his lips. So tender, these places. Small underfeathers touched Sam's cheek as he laved, sucked, kissed. Searched for new and myriad ways to give pleasure. Each soft sigh entered him like wine, filling the vacant spaces with joy.

Beneath him, Gabriel began to shake.

A slight tremor at first.

Then more as he arched hard when Sam moved higher, his strong back straining. Arched and flexed, wings trying to grip the air.

He tasted like rain, clean and perfect and fresh. Sam gripped tighter, touched the upper joint with the tip of his tongue. Gabriel jerked with a loud moan, _gaspgaspgasp__ing_ as Sam ignited nerves that forked like lightning through a body not made to house them. Sam delved, melting his partner into mindless throaty passioned pleading.

A sound like breaking cut off the archangel's voice as his discipline found its snapping end.

Sam failed to hear his own terrified gasp.

Fear with bestial jaws tore into his gut, and his heart pushed against his ribs, nearly vibrating with its speed. The urge to scream and run and hide whistled through his veins. He _knew_ what this was, but knowing didn't make one damn bit of difference. Angel dread, like only an archangel's hurricaning aura could provide, ripped through his fragile human senses.

Sam pressed his head between Gabriel's shoulder blades and held on tight, just trying to breathe. Not let go.

"I'm sorry, I—" The angel's voice quavered, thrumming deep and strangely muffled as Sam listened through the flesh of his body.

"Shh . . . s'ok," Sam muttered, because saying things makes them extra true.

Struggling for air, Sam lifted his head and placed a steadying kiss on the nape of the Gabriel's neck. "I know." It was only fear. "I can manage." He had once before. Driven an archangel beyond his limits, melted and undone and powerless. Sam let the fear run its course, mostly because he had no choice. But fear could give you focus. Give you fire. And in the wake of fear came the sharp joy of being alive.

Sam rubbed a reassuring hand through Gabriel's hair, damp with sweat, and left hot kisses against his neck and the side of his cheek. When Gabriel turned to meet him, he moved out of reach. Face flushed and fine lips parted in innocent desire, Gabriel panted, looked fucking _wrecked_, and Sam had never seen anyone wear sex so well. A burning look passed between them filled with lust, pleading. Gabriel blinked his glazed eyes when Sam still didn't move in to kiss him and then hung his head in surrender.

Sam traced his lips lightly over his partner's shoulder and, imbued with fresh white energy, found where he had left off. He swirled his tongue at the wing's junction, switching directions and pressure, blowing streams of air. Gabriel responded like going mad. He twisted and tried to flap his wings, shook his head and cried out. He pressed against the tree until its leaves shook and trunk creaked.

And then Sam pulled back and slowed. Paced. Recovered. Basked as one of God's most powerful creatures panted, needy and begging, a seeking proselyte. So strong, so vulnerable to the touch.

Sam placed a light kiss on the middle of Gabriel's back, there, and then another, as he prepared to start over, this time on the other side. Slowly, he switched arms, taking time to run his hands up the archangel's strong body. He had always enjoyed the soft roundness of women, how their hips flared and thighs molded to his hands. This was nothing like that, about as nothing like that as any body could be. Gabriel felt like living marble, silky to the touch but hard, constructed of a strange geometry he couldn't stop exploring. Gabriel hitched as Sam's rough palms scraped over his nipples. Interesting. Sam smiled against his lover's skin. Not quite as interesting as this.

The rain forest swallowed Gabriel's cries as Sam gave each inch of skin the full measure of his attention. His back ached and legs burned, but every whimper and moan that was almost his name was reason enough for just one more second. Quick flicks against the joint, and Gabriel's wings trembled. Sam sucked hard, and the angel bent back so much he almost brought them to standing.

_Flick. _Gabriel cried out.

_Flick_. His arms buckled and for a dizzying moment, they almost tumbled. Sam held him up.

_Flick. _Whimper.

A devilish smile flashed across Sam's face as he panted, tasting sweet anticipation. He was cloudy with it, high.

"Ready?" he muttered, nuzzling lightly.

"Y-yes," the archangel managed to say as he pushed against the tree with shaky arms.

Yes. Yes and yes and yes. Sam found the place that made his angel shudder. Hot tongue touched hotter skin. And then he brought his free hand up, skimmed over the muscles of Gabriel's lower back, and dipped strong fingers into the damp fold of his underwing. Gabriel rocked and twisted, as though trying to escape. Caught breath wheezed from his lungs as Sam slid his fingers higher, tracing, touching. _Gentle, gentle_.

Gabriel shook, a full body quake that he seemed as unable to control as his ragged, gasping breathing. He pushed back, straining into Sam's hands, writhing for the heat of his mouth.

So close. Sam laved faster and harder, the body beneath him bucking and finally moaning high and desperate. Beautiful, crumbling. Broken.

He touched against the most sensitive skin.

And they fell.

The angel's wings snapped in tight, and his knees became water. The sound of his ecstasy rolled as thunder through the sky, shaking the canopy. Sam peered up in surprised wonder as birds of every size and color scattered through the trees, screaming out their songs in a disjointed chorus that lasted only a moment.

Then silence.

His arm was still wrapped around Gabriel's middle, and Sam felt him pant and tremble through the aftershocks of his pleasure. Dirt and dead leaves ground into Sam's knees, so he carefully let his partner go as he stood up and backed away, his own body quivering. He watched as Gabriel sat back on his heels, swiped a hand near his groin in a curious gesture, and then slowly turned.

Their eyes met, and Sam sucked in a breath, suddenly thoroughly terrified. He dripped sweat. Burned from the inside out. His skin, wet from the heat, from the sex, if you could call it that, felt ready to combust, and yet a chill rolled out across his body.

Gabriel looked . . . fierce. Like an archangel.

He moved like a sonnet. Every muscle and limb unfolding with measured grace. He had a beauty that promised meaning, a rhythm of purpose. Sam stared, transfixed, into his dark chocolate eyes. The thought flashed through him with the pulse of a heartbeat that he was prey and should be running.

And then Sam was caught. A small sound of fear broke at the back of his throat, and he tensed, which should have been embarrassing only his brain had ground to a halt.

Long fingers curled into his hair and curved around the back of his neck. He stood dumb as Gabriel kissed him hard, licking his lower lip and then raking it with blunt teeth. It hurt, and then it stopped, just as his idiotic body started to thaw. Sam's eyes popped open, and the angel was giving him a long, heated look.

"What?" he breathed, suddenly aware that he was naked and that his partner was not, which couldn't _begin_ to count as fair. Also, that Gabriel's thigh pressed against his hard cock and shifted with exquisite friction as the angel stared into him.

The hand on his neck lifted, and without changing expressions, Gabriel touched a light finger to Sam's swollen, stinging lips. Sam shivered. And then frowned slightly as he became an object of inspection. Gabriel's eyes flicked down to watch as he traced the shape of Sam's mouth and then back. Sam couldn't tell if the gesture was affectionate or dominating. Maybe there wasn't any difference.

The angel tilted his head just a little. "Your turn," he said, and grinned in a way that was almost definitely affectionate.

Then, as if he had practiced this dance before, Gabriel stepped around Sam as though they were in a waltz. Sam felt the hand that had tangled in his hair shift lightly down. As Gabriel pressed against his back, the hand came to rest on his chest, locking him in a half-embrace. The angel's free hand traced up and down his side. He couldn't stop himself from squirming.

"You're ticklish," Gabriel said in a soft, amused voice right up against his ear.

Sam moved away from his wandering, playful fingers and said nothing. Shame clouded his face, not at being ticklish but at wanting to laugh—at this, at anything, as though a moment's levity was too much light in a too dark a place. He grunted unhappily and might have said stop when Gabriel's fingers came back to try a second time, may perchance have told him to make him burn instead.

Gabriel's reply was the sexiest growl Sam had ever heard, and it went straight to his toes. Everywhere their skin came in contact beaded with sweat. Gabriel's hot breath swept over his ear and cheek.

Then wings. Sam panicked at the sensation of being swallowed alive. Encased. Suffocated in a sweltering, silky, sliding. A strangled sound escaped him as feathers shuffled, brushed, tickled maddeningly, and he wanted to cry. _Stop. Do it harder. _

Sam felt sweat roll down his body slowly, like ants. And suddenly every point of pain or pleasure screamed, like they'd just been waiting for his attention. His back hurt and legs hurt and bare skin pulsed with his heartbeat and _God_ he ached. Gabriel's moans and pants could've turned on the dead, and Sam'd had to _try_ not to grind himself against him, so now his cock throbbed and he needed—needed—

_Gasp_.

Gabriel's mouth settled on his neck, pressing hot and wet. Unexpected. So near the right spot that Sam stretched and turned his head away, giving him room, pressing into a wall of feathers. They'd only done this once, but the angel _remembered_. How silly was that? A kiss lower. A small nip. His vision went all crazy white and brain shut right the hell down, so he was just nerves and emotion. A sob escaped, and Sam felt Gabriel's hands start to move, exploring. _Fuck_. This they had not done. Mapping and learning what it was to be loved. Sam breathed in quick and heavy, waiting on a knife's edge and swallowing down the small pleas that would reduce him to begging. But Gabriel _knew_, without words, without begging.

He set his tongue against the spot like a brand.

Sam lost his sense of standing. Dizzying flying, swayed trees. _Oh, fuck, god, yes._ Pleasure scalded down his limbs and he writhed, slick skin sliding in the angel's grip. He moaned like it hurt and thought it good, better, the best thing anyone could feel without exploding and dying right then. Goose flesh rippled down his arms. He drew a feather into his mouth and whimpered around it.

Gabriel pressed and Sam's strength cracked, breaking slowly. Sank into his lover's body, his strength.

"Please," he sobbed, bending.

And it won him a moment of reprieve as the angel lifted his head to whisper in his ear. "Please, what?"

_Finish me_.

He could not say, did not know the words for the want or _why_, and so he trembled in the archangel's grip. He ran a hand over his own stomach and clutched the arm like an iron band around his chest.

Sam felt the back of Gabriel's knuckles travel down his side. Ghosting tender and then digging in. A hard grip on one ass cheek. And then fingers searching, one slipping between—

"Don't." He wrenched away from the touch in panic, 'cause he wasn't really like that and curious as he was, he wasn't that fucking curious. His stomach did this little flip of fear, but his lover hugged him hard.

"Shh, shh." Gabriel's lips calming upon his cheek. "_Etharzi_..." Another kiss. "I was only curious." The hand rubbing circles on his thigh.

Heart pounding, Sam eased back into a kiss on his neck. One lower. The fear just melted right out as feathers shifted along his frame. He reached for his cock, unbearably tortured by the brush of wings, only to have his hand pushed out of the way.

Gabriel's hand closed around him instead. He whimpered out a moan and then cried sharply, weakened as his partner found that spot again.

And then his body was no longer his own. Tequila pleasure ran through his veins. Dizzy, hot. The rain forest blurred in his vision to smatterings of color. Deep green, bright red. Gabriel's soft hand pumped and pulled his cock in measured trochee, stress-rest. Strong-soft, slick-slip, blistered heat.

Sam leaned, flexed, and gripped the angel's hair. Groaned shamelessly and crushed him to his neck. Panted, jumped, begged when he stroked the slit of his cock. Fingers touched his lips, and he sucked them in, hard, encouraging. Protested when Gabriel slipped them free. They trailed cool and wet over his chest in sigils of ancient lovers' form.

Harder. Breathless. Needed. _Needed_. Something...

_Find me..._

More.

_Gabriel..._

Sam stiffened, his vision flashing in white stars. The soles of his feet went numb, his lips tingled. A rough and needy sound tore from his throat as he came, gripping the strong arm across his chest. Gabriel's hand on his cock stopped, let go, and then slid home to wrap around his waist.

_Breathe . . ._

_Breathe._

Bliss.

The angel held himself close, coiled around Sam's slightly larger frame. He flapped his wings lazily, and Sam shivered.

This. This calm. This bright star in his chest, glowing. Sam smiled.

It glowed, glowed and grew dim. He could feel it go. A few fleeting seconds, and it winked out. In the absence of light, the darkness gathered its own special gravity, drawing in every old regret and past failure to display a lifetime's worth of mistakes, a world-ending Category 5 storm of fuck ups. In seconds it was all just _there_, as it had been, and no array of angel feathers could hold something like that back. Sam sighed out a breath that tasted like smoke and pulled out of the archangel's embrace in silence.

He dipped to pick up his clothes and wordlessly pulled them on. The weight of Gabriel's gaze made his skin prickle. He knew he was being a prick, but he avoided looking back at him anyway, paying full attention to balancing as he put his pants on and then to tying his shoes. With every second, the creeping, sinking, clawing in his chest and bones returned. He tensed and hunched, as if he was protecting a wound.

"Sam," Gabriel said to his back in a tone that was almost completely diplomatic, it nearly didn't sound hurt.

Sam flinched slightly and finished his tying. He focused on his fingers and waited, wondering and afraid what Gabriel might say. Anything from _Am I just a sex toy to you? _to _Wanna tell me why you ended the fucking world, kid?_ seemed appropriate. He pressed his eyes shut.

"Sam," the angel said his name like it was this fragile thing, prone to sundering."I will listen." His voice was gentle, like coaxing a wounded pup.

It was absurd. The _concern_. How could anyone? After everything? Be so damned _concerned_ that stupid Sammy was having a bad day? Sam squeezed his eyes shut harder and stood. The pain in his chest, in his gut, swelled and stuck like a bubble in his throat. It would've hurt less to chew rocks. The things . . . the memories had . . . no . . . _words_. They were pain and regret, shot through with anger, twisted with hopelessness and impotent guilt. He convulsed with a silent sob that felt a whole hell of a lot like a stab wound and then he turned. Looked.

Gabriel had put his wings away and crossed his arms customarily over his chest. He looked like he was just a man. Sam dragged his eyes up by degrees, fearful. He swallowed, took a few huffing shallow breaths, and finally looked him in the eye. It felt like invasion and though he frowned and shifted, Sam didn't look away. Bore it up, trembling.

After a moment of steady, quiet regard, the archangel's eyebrows lifted in questioning encouragement. Not judgment or scorn, and thank _God_ not hate.

Sam felt his unneeded sweatshirt slip from his powerless hand. The vise in his throat spun open.

"I—" He drew a breath thick with saliva and doubt. "I-I loved her." The words squeezed out, foreign, cutting his throat as they came, and he couldn't look Gabriel in the eye as he said them. Sam tried to say the next bit, words ghosting across his lips. Nothing seemed to say enough, seemed to encompass the unspeakable enormity. He cast his gaze about the surrounding forest and then back at Gabriel. Desperation carved itself deeply into Sam's face. He tried to move, step closer maybe, but his feet refused and instead he sank to his knees. Something inside broke on impact.

"Ruby, she was . . . there for me when I—when Dean was . . ." Sam sucked in a breath, looked at the angel, and then away. "She told me what I wanted to hear," he admitted, sorrow heavy in each word. It'd taken forever for him to _see _that, of course, and now it sounded so simple, and he so stupid. "She . . . said that I would make it through, you know? She said that . . . I was powerful, that I could do great things. She said I could _save _people, that I had this _gift_." Sam stopped and looked down at his upturned palms. "She—she said I could stop the demons. Save the seals. _Me_." He looked up quickly, willing Gabriel to understand. "That Ididn't need _protecting_ anymore. No one else was . . . was ever gonna have to die for me. 'Cause . . . 'cause." He clamped his jaw shut until it ached. Shaking, Sam swallowed and felt guilty tears sting at his eyes. "'Cause I'd be stronger and faster and, and _better_." He let out a bitter crumbling laugh and hunched, staring back down at his hands. "I, uh, I . . ." Surely, all of Heaven knew every detail of what he'd done. Surely, it wasn't news. But he'd never told anyone and heard the words echo in his own head. "I, um. I . . . drank demon blood," he whispered, and shied away as much from his own admission as from any angelic fury.

His whole body hummed with riotous emotion. Tears built until his vision shimmered, and he fought them off as long as he could. His voice shook when he spoke, expelling truth like demons. "I, uh . . . mur–mur—" A sob broke through and Sam failed in his fight, big tears spilled down his cheeks. His jaw trembled, but he forced the words out anyway, "I murdered a . . . a woman. A nurse. She, uh, she had a demon in her, and, um"—he gripped his hands together until it hurt—"and I needed . . . to, umm." _Say it._ He shook his head against the memory. "I needed to drink her blood. She—she begged me not to. Cried. God, she _screamed_, and I thought . . . y'know just the demon, right? But maybe, umm, maybe now I think, maybe it was really her, and I just . . ."

Sam crumpled in on himself as tears rolled hot and fast. He gasped in a wet lungful of air and cried like he hadn't in ages. So much more needed to be said, so many mistakes flayed open and pinned, crucified under a harsh light. But he couldn't speak. There was only a binding pain where his voice should be. And _I'm sorry for the End of the World_ might take forever to say. "I-I was strong and now, I—"

Something moved. He saw blurry blackness pass into the edges of his vision and then felt a hand slide onto his bowed head.

"Sam," Gabriel spoke as though addressing a child. He played with Sam's hair, running strands between his fingers, and then knelt.

Sam blinked big tears from his eyes to clear his vision. Gabriel's hand cupped his cheek, warm. He waited.

"I can't offer you absolution," the archangel said carefully, his voice soft and eyes glassy with unshed tears. "Only God can do that."

Right. Yeah, of course. He hadn't—hadn't really expected anything different. Sam's body rattled like he'd been punched in the gut, and with closed eyes he started to nod. He understood. Of course, he understood. Rogue tears slipped from under his eyelids anyway.

Gabriel wiped one away with a brush of his thumb, and Sam automatically blinked to look at him.

"What I can offer," the angel went on, "is _my_ forgiveness."

Sam stared back at him and then took a few tries to find his ability to speak. "Why?" he asked in a small, unsure voice. "Why would you do that?"

The archangel looked down, his gaze resting somewhere about Sam's knees. As far as Sam could tell, he gave the question a considerable amount of thought. He didn't move his hand from Sam's face, instead letting it rest lightly just where it was, and Sam found himself glad, grateful even, for the contact.

At length, Gabriel looked up. His expression was serious and searching. "Who in this world loves you?"

"Dean and Bobby," Sam replied without hesitation.

The angel nodded, looking thoughtful and not a bit surprised. "A father and a brother."

Sam nodded slightly into Gabriel's palm, not at all sure where this was going.

A steady, earnest gaze. "Is it enough?"

Sam frowned back at him, his heart skipping a beat or two at the feel of a thumb caressing his cheek. "No," he breathed, hoarse.

At that Gabriel looked satisfied and he broke the contact between them. He stood and went to retrieve his clothes, clearly considering the matter settled. In confused silence, Sam watched for a moment and all the things he hadn't managed to say tumbled around his brain. Not half of what he'd wanted to say, not _half_—

He jumped to his feet in impulsive anger. "That's it? Just like that, like it was _easy_? You can't just . . . _forgive_—you can't—" He stormed after him. Back turned, Gabriel tugged the hem of his shirt into place. "Look at me!" Sam roared and jerked him around with explosive violence.

Of all the dumb things Sam had ever done, an impressively long list, manhandling an archangel suddenly struck his heart as maybe one of the dumbest. Gabriel rounded into his space, furious and terrifying, his being flaring far beyond the bounds of his flesh. "I _do_ look at you," his voice shook with something unidentifiable and he shoved in closer, forcing Sam back with each step. "And _into _you." Step. "And through you."

Sam retreated further, a chill filling the space where his anger had been. He stared, wide-eyed, barely breathing and weak from the whiplash of his own emotions. Gabriel visibly brought his own temper under control, closed his eyes, and adjusted the set of his shoulders. The charged air between them calmed some as seconds passed, and when the archangel opened his eyes again, all Sam could think was that he looked inexorably sad. Gabriel's gaze settled on Sam's chest, and he reached out to place his palm just over his heart.

Strange that such a gesture should be familiar. The angel's hand burned unnaturally, and all of Sam's awareness gathered to the point of contact.

"Do you remember what I showed you?" Gabriel asked, eyes following something only he could see.

Sam's own soul, black and dying. And when it wasn't that, a swirl of sickly green. Toxic waste. Death. Sam remembered. Remembered the pit of darkness that raged where his heart should have been, in the space under Gabriel's hand.

Sam swallowed and nodded, not really sure he wanted to know where this was going. What the angel could see now.

Gabriel lifted his eyes to look at him, and it was a longing, lost expression. "How do you think I should fix it?" He sounded as helpless as Sam felt.

"I—"

"If I cauterize the darkness"—his eyes flicked back down—"what would be left?"

Was he supposed to answer? Sam shook his head vaguely and shivered.

"Char." Gabriel ground out the word, dropping it like a stone. Sam felt him press his hand a little harder as he leaned in, looking. "I might as well damn you to Hell myself, because _that_ is what Hellfire does."

He looked at Sam again with grim intensity. Sam covered the angel's hand with his own, offering and seeking reassurance. Gabriel let him wrap their fingers together.

"So." Sam gathered his courage. "So how come I'm not a demon? Chuck said my eyes—"

"Because you tempered the poison with love," Gabriel swiftly interrupted. Apparently, he'd been giving this quandary some thought. He sounded very sure of his answer.

Sam's eyebrows lifted in question, but Gabriel's attention shifted elsewhere instead. A particular, peculiar expression passed over the archangel's face: thoughtful and focused, but focused on something far, far, away. It looked like he was listening to music, and losing himself in the magic of the melody. Sam waited while the angel decided on his words.

"You're familiar with chemical compounds?" he asked at last.

"Sure." Sam frowned slightly back at him.

"Sodium on its own is reactive and toxic. Combined with simple carbon, though, and humans use it as medicine."

Sam smirked, because who'd have thought angels knew high school chemistry? But Gabriel's meaning was clear enough, to him anyway. He had demon baking soda of the soul. It was both ludicrous and strangely apt.

It also didn't answer the question. "And, what does that mean, though? Am I still evil?"

The archangel gave him a pained look. "It means . . ." He looked around the forest, glanced up at the canopy, and then met Sam's gaze steadily. "It means that I have hope." His mouth turned in a slight grin, and Sam exhaled tension he hadn't known he'd been holding in. He let the angel's hand go, and Gabriel moved off to grab his jacket from where it hung on a tree branch.

Sam took a moment to let the wobbly feeling inside settle. His ribs didn't hurt quite as much, the emptiness didn't yawn quite so far. He moved to pick up his hoodie and gave it a look of consternation. He couldn't decide what would look more douchey, tying it around his neck or his waist. He tried picturing what Dean might say and which totally condescending "my brother is an ass" face he'd use. At least insults would be _talking_, though, and Sam made a note to give that a shot.

". . . look around?" Gabriel was saying something.

"Huh?" He looked up.

"While we're here," the angel said each word slowly and paused between each statement, "would you like . . . to take . . . a look . . . around?" He eyes danced in amusement.

Right! Right, the Amazon rain forest. Sam'd almost managed to forget where they were, or that where they were existed on a real map somewhere. He swallowed his embarrassment under a cheeky grin and gave his companion a sidelong glance.

"Are you sure it's safe? I mean . . . I thought there were snakes and twelve kinds of deadly spiders."

Gabriel lifted a heavy fern leaf out of his way and peered into the green dark. "Three thousand eighty . . . one."

"Kinds?"

"Of spiders."

Sam knotted his shirtsleeves at his waist and stared at the angel's leather clad back. There was no way that jacket could be comfortable. Sam wondered if he could just turn it on and off, feeling things. Must be nice. "That's not funny."

Gabriel glanced back at him and grinned. "You don't have to worry."

"I wasn't!" Sam protested and made his way over. Gabriel looked away, and Sam got the distinct impression it was to hide a smirk. He gave him a pinched, bitchy glare. "I wasn't."

The angel pushed back the fern leaf and started off into the undergrowth. "Stay close, and ask before you touch anything that looks pretty."

Sam huffed, "Yes, Mom," and followed. "You know, I'm not an idiot!" he hollered, which might be highly frickin' contestable, but the implication annoyed him anyway.

The ensuing silence was frustratingly difficult to argue with.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean whirled around at the sound of Sam's laughter as his brother came through the motel room door. _About fucking time!_

"Where the hell've you been?" The elder Winchester faintly roared a mixture of worry and anger. Because disappearing while Bobby was still fucked up and angels were on their asses and _Lucifer_ was doing the Lambada down Main Street? _Seriously _not cool.

The laughter died, and Sam stared at him, stunned.

"I—"

"I've been calling you for _three _hours, man!" Dean shook the cell phone in his hand for emphasis. A hundred things could've happened. A thousand!, starting with demon kidnappings And ending with Happy Fun Times Angel Camp for the Damned.

Sam's eyes darted from side to side, which was _so _the beginning of a lie. "I was . . . kind of out of cell range," Sam said carefully.

Dean's glare narrowed at the suspiciously vague answer. Out of cell range? They had Verizon. He stalked forward, all big brother omniscience and laser eyes of doom. Sam looked guilty—shifty eyes and hunched shoulders. Not that he didn't have a lot to be guilty for, but this was extra guilty with double pickle. "Booze?"

"Dean . . ."

"Hookers?"

"Dean!"

And those were the _happy _alternatives. "Well then what, Sam! You needed a frickin Happy Meal?"

"Out! Okay? We were just . . . out." Sam shifted uncomfortably and glanced down at something in his hands.

Dean glanced, too, and made snorting laugh sound that was seriously threatening the Very Important Business vibe he had going. With concerted effort he squinted, put on his mad face, and tried to stay on topic.

"_We_?" Dean arched an eyebrow, imperious, briefly giving the open door beyond Sam's shoulder a look.

"Yeah, me and—" Sam hooked a thumb towards the door and turned. He stopped dead, snapped his jaw shut, and did a double-take between Dean and the door.

"You and?" Dean's eyebrows hitched higher as he watched his brother stare at the unoccupied space of the doorway and frown. _Please, do not say something crazy_, he thought.

"Gabriel," Sam said the name slowly, in confusion, like admitting he'd failed a test he was sure he passed.

"Right." Perfect. "Gabriel." Why _not_? "I thought angels couldn't find us anymore with our fancy new bone-tats."

Sam lifted his broad shoulders in a sheepish shrug that made Dean's gut clench a little. "I . . . might've told him where to look."

Oh for . . . "Jesus, Sam!" Dean gave the ceiling a brief look, shaking his head.

"What!"

"Oh, I dunno, Sammy. It _occurs _to me that as an archangel of the Lord, he might not be _okay_ with you starting the Apocalypse." Dean turned in a tight circle, raking a hand through his hair. Leave the kid alone for _two _frickin seconds . . .

A bitchy look crossed Sam's face as he made to reply. Tried twice, in fact, but only managed to look hurt and offended without actually defending himself. Eventually, he shrugged helplessly and muttered, "He actually didn't seem that upset about it."

_Oh, well, that makes it all better then_, Dean said with an eloquent series of facial expressions and a small wave of his hand. But as much as he hated to admit it, that was actually interesting and potentially great news. Dean fixed a glare on his brother anyway, for good measure. "Point is," he groused, "we're supposed to be _hiding _from angels."

"You don't hide from yours," Sam shot back.

"That's . . ." Dean pressed his lips together. "Different." And Sam knew it. Cas was _not _like the other angels. And then there was the sex. Relationship. Whatever. Point being, Sam _knew_, so he was just trying to be a dick.

Dean glanced at the thing Sam was still holding. Well, two could play that. A smirk tickled the edges of his mouth. "So you and the big bad angel were out, what, hunting guava?"

Sam looked down, eyes wide in surprise, and then back up. "How did—"

"I know what a guava is!" Dean barked quickly, 'cause he _wasn't_ actually as stupid as Stanford-Sam seemed to think he was.

His brother hunched, cowed. "Sorry," he said, and gave the perfectly sliced fruit an unsure look. Sam moved to offer the half that was left, and then reconsidered at the heat of Dean's glare.

"Whatever." Dean turned with a shake of his head. "While you were out having an"—he shot a critical look at the sweatshirt tied around Sam's waist—"_excellent_ adventure, we've been having a Ragnorok kind of thing." He made a circular Wax-On motion, indicating the entirety of planet Earth and millions of lives in Great Mortal Peril and all.

"Dean, I—"

"Don't." Because Dean could see the tidal wave just waiting. And if he had to spend the rest of his life cleaning up Sammy's tears . . . well some things just weighed too damned much. It wasn't that he didn't care, Christ, he could never _not care_, but that caring had worn him threadbare. You could patch that up all you wanted, but underneath, the essential fabric was still just a fragile film with no future but falling apart. He'd already proven once that he wasn't strong enough and he didn't really need an encore.

Dean made a grab for the TV remote on the bed. The sound of something squishy and fruitish hitting the floor came from the trash can, and he felt Sam's looming presence at his side. Dean clicked on the tube. It was already on CNN. Images of police lines, helicopters, and medical units flashed across the screen. Quarantine blinked at the top of it in big, bold letters.

"What's—" Sam started to say.

"Hanover, Pennsylvania. At least it was. Whole town came down with some kinda illness." Dean looked at his brother. Sam's eyes were glued to the screen, soaking up as much as he could from the info bites.

"How many people?"

Dean didn't have to look at the screen. It was all he'd been hearing and reading about for hours. He'd first heard the nurses chattering to each other, and then turned on the TV in Bobby's room to see for himself. They still hadn't said a word to each other, but the look in Bobby's eyes had said it all. And given how much seeing the old man like that made Dean's heart ache, made him want to shake him hard and sputter like a girl and hug him way longer than was culturally appropriate, he was frankly _glad_ to have a reason to leave.

"Fifteen thousand or so," Dean replied. "Rounded up to twenty, just to be safe."

Slowly, Sam turned to look at him, his expression gone blank. "What?" he said in a horrified little whisper.

Dean nodded, turned off the TV, and tossed the remote back on the bed. "Twenty-thousand people died in one day, and nobody's got a clue why."

"You think it's demons?"

"Well it ain't chicken pox." Dean moved to the desk, closed the laptop and started to pack up. He felt Sam watching him and unhelpfully _not _starting to pack up. With a huff, Dean tossed a shirt into his duffle and looked at him. "What." Sam had a look on his face like he'd just noticed the room was missing a wall or something.

"Where's Castiel?" Sam glanced around and then at Dean's bed.

"Gone ahead to check things out. Why?"

Sam shrugged in a terribly unconvincing way, and Dean glared a little harder. "Is there something about this that does _not_ scream end of the world scenario to you?"

His brother studied his feet and collected his words. "No, it's just. I mean, it's an epidemic, Dean. And you wanna run right into the middle of it?"

Dean shoved some more clothes into his bag, annoyance burning its way up his back. Exactly when did Sam become an expert on Things That Are a Good Idea? Cause Dean was fairly sure he hadn't exactly cornered that market, lately. "Pretty much," he bit out.

Sam sighed loudly in his drama queen way. "Well, dontcha think that's a little stupid?"

With more force than necessary, Dean jerked the zipper on his duffle shut and then looked his brother square in the face. "That's what we do, Sam. Welcome to the past _our entire lives_."

"With ghosts, and werewolves, and demons, Dean." Sam's dark eyes pleaded. "Things we can defend against! Shoot. Kill. Who's to say we're not gonna get sick as soon as we show up?"

More annoying than Sam disappearing without one damn word was him showing back up and having accurate opinions. And fuck all if he wasn't _right_, but twenty-_thousand_ people. "I don't know, Sam! What do you wanna do, huh?" Dean threw up his hands. "Ignore it? Hope it gets better?"

Sam looked away, and Dean rounded the bed to get up in his face because this? This was theirs. A heaping pile of bodies, all with their names on them. "What about the next town, huh? And the next one? These people have no idea what they're dealing with!"

That brought Sam's attention back, and he glared down, meeting Dean's eyes. "Neither do we."

_Whatever_. Dean turned aside and grabbed his bag. They'd been making it up for awhile now, anyway. Briefly, he let himself acknowledge that Sam had a point and they weren't doctors and had no idea how to stop of a virus of _any _kind. But only briefly. 'Cause where know-how failed, he had bravado, and if he didn't have _that _thenthey were all screwed.

Dean shoved his way past Sam and made for the door. "Cas is waiting, you coming or not?" He called over his shoulder and didn't stop to look back. He just threw his things into the car and waited for the sound of the passenger door opening.

They sat next to each other for a few moments in silence.

Sam played with his hands. Dean gripped the steering wheel like he was throttling a snake.

Finally, "What else did the news say?" Sam sounded robotic and resigned, but frankly that was good enough.

XXX

By Winchester standards, Hanover was actually quite close: a little over two and a half hours at the speed limit. Dean estimated two—he wasn't growing hair in weird places yet, and his baby liked it full throttle. They were on route 95, sailing toward Baltimore, then it'd be up interstate 83 into Pennsylvania. The scenery was supposed to be beautiful, not that the brothers could see it anyway, given as they'd left the motel somewhere around 2am. Gabriel's sense of time must've been as quixotic as his impression of space. Sam didn't actually know how long they'd been gone. Or when they'd shown up. If they'd left at midnight and returned at 2, but had been in the forest for 4 hours, did that make him 2 hours older? Or 4? Because from his perspect—

_Ugh!_ Sam felt physics lessons and advanced mathematics twisting in his head. Angel relativity. And it was all just stupid distraction anyway to keep himself from the real questions.

Like, what was with the disappearing? Gabriel had been right behind him heading back into the room, speaking in that amused, easy way of his, like he was continually surprised that anyone would want to hear him talk. His stories were the flesh and blood of myth. _Real_ histories that were painted in vivid colors by his words. Sam could see the cities, taste the air. Without thinking, Gabriel's voice would slip into Latin, Ancient Greek, and minute dialects Sam needed him to translate. _"How many languages do you speak?" he had asked. "All of them," Gabriel had replied, and they nearly collided when Sam suddenly halted to face him. "How's that even possible?" Gabriel's look had turned fond, like he enjoyed the challenge. "God gave you tongues with which to speak," he'd said softly and drawn in intimately close, so his breath touched Sam's face. "We taught you how to use them." Sam had thought he would be kissed, but Gabriel simply smiled and moved on._ He told him how Helen of Troy lived and breathed, but wasn't all that beautiful. She was a fulcrum for political gain, yes, but neither a love struck child nor a mortal goddess. Menelaus? Paris? She'd hated them both, he'd said.

Sam had asked about Achilles, too. And Gabriel fell silent. Sam had turned, halfway through a bite of fruit, to look at him, sucked up the bit of juice running from the corner of his mouth as he studied the angel's expression. Gabriel returned a steady, expectant gaze, teasing with his non-answer. Achilles, the greatest of warriors, a one man army, a soldier protected from all harm by the gods. Sam's eyes had widened. It was—there was no— Gabriel had full on smiled, then, and started to laugh like a victor. A musical sound of triumph and humor. He'd let Sam stammer for a minute before describing the ancient soldier in decidedly human terms.

Sam could feel the flush of embarrassment even now. He'd been had. In good fun, but still. Embarrassing to be the butt of an angel's alien humor.

Then without so much as a good-bye, he was gone. Sam wondered if it was an act of discretion or something else.

His thoughts turned toward the specifics of what he kept terming as "the encounter," which wasn't really fair in the way it abstracted everything. He kept thinking about that one moment, where Gabriel had put his hand on his ass and started to touch him in what Sam, despite himself, could only term "a gay way." It sounded crude, even to his own ears, and caveman-ish. But it was how he felt, and he hadn't faked the fear and the pounding heart. And it wasn't like he was afraid Gabriel'd hurt him 'cause he'd been nothing but gentle. But it _would _hurt, he was pretty sure. Even worse, he might _like _it. And then what? Then he'd be gay?

He didn't feel gay. You had to like _guys_ to be gay. He liked girls; loved Jess.

Sam worried one knuckle between his teeth.

Maybe he was gay _for_, he thought. Christ. "Gay for Gabriel" sounded like a bumper sticker. But that didn't mean it wasn't true, or that it couldn't be true. You could like _a _man without liking men as a category. He'd read things like that, seen it on TV. It happened. Supposedly.

Maybe that was him. Maybe that was his category. After all, he hadn't _planned _Gabriel. He was just _there _and so . . . everything. This blazing light, this fantastic power, this knowledge and wisdom and beauty and terror. This force of nature that wanted to hold him close.

Sam's thoughts flipped back to Gabriel's hand gripping, warm and sure, and then his finger sliding down. Sam's body tensed, rejecting the idea just like it had before. He didn't want that. Clearly. But if not that, then what? Once is a mistake, but twice?

Try as he might, it was a question he couldn't seem to find a way to answer, after awhile, he gave up trying and let himself relax into happier thoughts that pulled a smile to his lips. There were plenty of those. Sam's attention slowly drifted back toward the present. Over the cacophony of his own thoughts, he could hear Dean's voice droning and angled himself away from the sound as though his memories were written plainly across his face for his brother to read. Delicate memories, singularly gossamer experiences that might turn to dust in the right light.

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face and leaned back, stretching out his tall form as far as the Impala would let him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother pull the phone away from his ear and drop it on the seat with what was definitely disappointment.

"What'd Bobby say?" Sam asked cautiously.

Dean pursed his lips for a second. "Nothing." The word fell like a heavy wet sheet, sucking out all the air.

Sam scowled in grim discomfort. Nothing, in this case, meant _nothing_. Silence. He'd have preferred a good scolding for runnin' off on some fool errand bent on getting themselves killed. By Dean's expression, they both would have. Sam settled back down and tried to think of something to say. Something encouraging, maybe. Something not about twenty-thousand dead in under twenty-four hours. Respiratory distress. Coughing up blood. Open sores. Complete organ failure.

"So, um, how's Castiel?" Sam ventured.

"Boyfriend Resurrected? Oh, he's fantastic."

_Well shoot me for asking_. Sam repressed a sigh and concentrated on staring at the road ahead of them. Dean could take his snark and shove it. But then he heard his brother draw a deep breath and let out a weary sigh of his own.

"I dunno." The elder Winchester's voice came out gravelly and low.

Sam turned to watch his brother's face in the reflected glow of the headlights.

"He doesn't stay around long. Couple of minutes here and there," Dean said in hushed tones. "It's desperate and kinda freakin' me out. I feel like . . . I dunno, like he's not telling me something, but I dunno what it is." He shook his head lightly in confusion and defeat.

It was an expression Dean had been wearing a lot lately. Other than outright anger, it was probably his most common one. A twinge of guilt struck Sam's chest, and he glanced down at the seat between them.

"He loves you, though," Sam said gently.

"I know."

He looked up at Dean. "Like, a lot."

Dean frowned at that and his mouth took on a pained grimace. "Too much."

"No such thing." Sam's voice came out more fierce than he'd intended, and Dean turned to face him. To study him. Sam stared back, but something in the thoughtful scrutiny clawed at the empty aching in his chest. A rush of guilt made him look away, and he sat with the uneasy feeling that he'd said the wrong thing.

Eventually, Sam heard the sound of Dean's hands changing position on the steering wheel and knew his attention was back on the road. Sam swallowed and didn't look over. Somehow he'd trespassed, straining their fragile truce. If Dean wasn't such a fucking mystery all the time, maybe he could've figured out how, but Dean was Dean, and Sam slumped sullenly in his seat. Between them unfurled the silence of a haunted jail, where suffering echoes soundless on the stone.

XXX

They were a little over forty-five minutes away, roaring down some hick country road flatteringly deemed route 216. Towns that were no more than a convenience store and a post office kept whipping by. The headlights caught the decapitated stalks of corn in the fields on either side, giving the land a vaguely blasted look. That was, right up until the hairpin turn onto Blooming Grove, which plunged them straight into a forest.

"You sure this is right?" Dean sat up a little straighter and tried not to sound spooked.

Sam held a flashlight between his teeth, scanning both the printed directions and the highway map. Yes, he was sure it was right. Yes, he'd been able to read maps before books, so they weren't lost, thanks. And yes Blooming Grove would take them straight through—

"Ho! Sam!" Dean howled suddenly in disgust and reached for the window crank. "Jesus . . . _warn _me you frickin' fart bomb!"

Startled, Sam looked over, inhaled to speak, and promptly dropped the flashlight as the stench hit him. _Holy . . ._ "Wasn't me!" he coughed out, diving to roll his window down as well. Him or anyone else, cause God _damn_, there was no way _that _came out of a human.

"Aww!" Dean made another loud protest as the air from outside rushed in. He slammed on the brakes, and the car lurched to a halt with prejudice. "Roll 'em up! Roll 'em _up_!"

Nauseating decay filled the air, and Sam felt his stomach churn in hearty protest. He clamped a hand over his mouth and turned to his brother. Dean was pinching his nose closed between two fingers like a four-year-old about to jump in the deep end of a pool.

"Wud da hell is goin on out dere?"

Sam smirked and laughed a little at his idiot brother. Dean could take on poltergeist and zombies no problem, but stuff up his nose and his extra miserable kid-sized self came out to whine. Sam sobered and peered out into the dark. "I dunno." His words were muffled by his hand "It smells like rotting fish though, doesn't it?"

Dean gave the road ahead a scathing, insulted look. "I hate fish."

Sam narrowed his eyes, because one of the few things his brother did _besides_ hunt things was fish. Dean looked over and caught his expression.

"What?"

Sam considered, weighed his chances, and decided against it. "Nothing." He shuffled the papers in his lap and picked up the flashlight. If he remembered right, "Here. This road goes straight through Codorus State Park."

"So?"

"So . . . Lake Marburg is the major attraction there."

"Fishery," Dean said, sounding glum. His shoulders slumped.

"Pretty sure, yeah."

With a longsuffering look like Sam had put the damn lake there himself, Dean let up on the brakes and started them rolling again, keeping one hand firmly in place over his nose. "Dis is gonna be as bad as I t'ink id is, isn't it."

In Sam's estimation, it was actually a little worse.

By the time they rolled onto the road crossing Lake Marburg, the rot was a cloying _taste_ in the air. Every breath ended in a gag, and Sam's eyes watered from the effort not to hurl all over the inside of the car. He waved for Dean to slow down, and they came to a stop somewhere around the middle of the lake. The lights from the highway barely graced the surface of the water.

Groaning as he opened the door, Sam stepped out onto the empty road. The stench of dead fish pervaded everything, and he flinched from it like a physical blow. His body tried to curl in on itself, seeking protection. Sam fought the sickness down and leaned over the railing to get a good look at the lake. The dark waters took unnatural form, like diseased skin. Bubbles and boils bobbed on the surface, reflecting orange sodium lights and the cold light of a waning moon through thin fog. The underbellies of dead fish. A vast lake of them, turned putrid.

Sam felt Dean come up beside him, brushing against his arm as he, too, leaned over the railing to look down.

After a long, stunned silence, "Dat is _never_ good."

Sam gave the lake a worried look. "Or a coincidence." He glanced at his brother, but Dean was already turning away and heading back for the car. Sam hurried to follow, taking long, quick strides. He slid into the passenger's seat and didn't bother to buckle in, as that would require letting go of his nose. And frankly, between the two, he'd take the chance of a car crash.

They left as quickly as the old girl could carry them. Sam kept his mouth shut when the needle passed 100. And he sighed long and loud when they were finally able to open the windows to allow in some fresh air, which _Jesus_ had never smelled or tasted or _felt _so good.

XXX

Hotel Stonegate in Blooming Grove was actually kind of on the classy side of impermanent living. Which, to be honest, made Sam feel a little like a dick for having rented one of their rooms, given that he smelled like last week's trash. He stood awkwardly in the lobby while the woman behind the desk scrunched up her face and glared at him. Once, by accident, he looked her in the eye only to see palpable disgust. Not that he could blame her. He smelled like the inside of a hot barrel of fish heads. She slid the key onto the counter and jerked her hand back, just in case he was thinking of making contact. He offered a pinched, pathetic grin before snatching the key and hurrying away.

He looked down at the room number and up at the directory on the way out.

She'd given them the room farthest from the office.

While Dean showered (because he was the oldest and therefore commanded a divine right to the hot water), Sam unpacked their black suits, hung them from the back of the door, and broke out the Febreze. If they'd had time, he'd have gone for dry cleaning but hopefully a whole bottle of Linen & Sky would suffice. Their clothes _had_ been inside the bag. And in plastic.

He leaned in to sniff the jacket lapel, and shuddered.

Sometimes, life sucked.

An hour later, the bottle was empty, and everything they were going to need was laid out to air dry. Well, everything but some way to keep from getting dead, but apparently _that _was so far off Dean's radar that bringing it up was a measure of cowardice instead of prudence. Sam had been tumbling it around while spritzing. He was right. He _knew _he was right, and he was pretty sure his brother wasn't so stupid that he couldn't see it either, which meant it wasn't about _being_ right, but _having_ rights. Biblical saviors? Big brothers? They have certain rights. Everyone else, not so much. And the more Sam thought about it, the tighter his tension and patience wound. Dean, by the way, was _still _in the shower.

Sam gave the bathroom door an annoyed look. Steam leaked out from underneath it. Enough steam that he could've _pressed_ the damned suits while he was at it. He huffed, waited. Stripped off his fishmonger clothes, waited. Eventually paced over and pounded his fist once against the door.

"Dude, seriously? It's been over an hour. You're not getting any cleaner!" He leaned against the door.

No reply.

"Dean?" He hit the door twice more, alarm sharpening in his gut. "Dean!"

"What!" The door swung in suddenly, and Sam almost tumbled in after it. His brother stood wrapped in a towel at the waist, his face half-covered in shaving foam.

Sam glanced around at what was quite obviously not a dangerous or life-threatening situation. He worked up a look that crossed concern with longsuffering. "Would it kill you to answer?"

Dean's hazel-green eyes simply stared back. And then he looked back to the mirror over the sink, picked up his razor, and made to continue where he'd left off. Sam didn't move. Dean slanted a look at him. "Do you mind?" He gestured.

_Yes. Jerk. _Sam's face tightened. "Jus' hurry up, would ya?"

Which clearly in Dean-speak meant, "Take all the damn time in the world." He actually _whistled_ as he finished up. Not cheerily, but in a toneless time-wasting, "God I am a pain in the ass" kind of way.

By some miracle, there was still hot water by the time Sam got to wash the fish-stench off of his skin and out of his hair. Even more, Hotel Stonegate had gone the extra mile and installed a massaging showerhead. If he slouched, he could let the water beat against his shoulders and pound out the tension. The rhythm against his back lulled him into a light trance, only broken when the water did indeed finally run cold.

Sam glanced at himself in the mirror and made a face. The scruffy look really wasn't going to fly. It'd only been about a million years since he'd had a chance to sleep, but he carried on making himself presentable, yawning and blinking and trying not to cut off anything he'd regret as he shaved. By the time he was done, Dean had already sacked out. One could only assume the misshapen lump under the comforter was him, anyway. The blankets were pulled clear up to the headboard. A decidedly empty expanse filled the left side of the mattress, and Sam felt a twinge of sympathy. Also, the urge to tell Dean how totally sweet that was. Really, just, _adorable_.

Sibling radar must've caught Sam's grin, because the lump on the bed flopped around a little. He looked away.

The plan for tomorrow was one of the stupidly simple ones. Standard hunter protocol, really. _Hi, we're The Feds, we'd like to do whatever we want now, please. Why, yes sir, Mr. Men in Black. Please, proceed, and thanks so much for taking all the blame on this one!_

Sam glanced at the faked IDs on the table, the neatly re-hung suits that had finished drying. Just routine, he tried to tell himself. But Dean's descriptions of what'd happened in Hanover kept waving little danger flags all over the place—the kind that even his stunted sense of self-preservation thought deserved a second thought.

He sighed. If one of them got sick . . .

Sam sank onto the remarkably comfortable bed and gave it a surprised little look. He wriggled and nestled in to the unaccustomed luxury. Decent mattresses must be a gift from Heaven, he thought with a sigh. No wonder Dean'd fallen asleep already. He absently thought about asking Gabriel if angels slept on clouds and grinned vaguely at the imagined response. But worries far more pressing flooded into his mind.

Anti-virals. Antibiotics. They should've gotten both. Or something.

He didn't like it. Sam drew a deep breath and sighed heavily again, mostly because Dean was right about the Biblical badness. Every doctor in the country could be on this one and still not come up with anything. They had to try to set it right. It was his fault after all. All those people, nameless someones he now owed an unpayable debt to. Maybe dying in the process wouldn't be an unfitting punishment. The despairing ache in his chest flared open. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd get to save a few of those someones on the way out.

Sam rubbed a hand on his breastbone, as though it could ease the aching, as though anything could, and pushed himself up the bed. He sprawled across the middle, cut the light, and fell asleep wondering if he would dream.

XXX

Every road into Hanover was blockaded. Even the little ones. Not unexpected given the unprecedented catastrophe, but not that handy either. The route the Winchesters had chosen was major enough to be believable, but not so major that they might run into the _actual_ FBI at a checkpoint. Once agents started calling bosses and checking credentials, it'd be game over. But so long as it was just them and a couple Paul Blarts, it was all down to the sales pitch. Sam could see Dean calculating his as they came to a stop a respectable distance from the road barrier. Sam straightened his tie one last time, slipping on a lie as easily as a smile, and the two of them got out in practiced unison.

Ambulances, lights twirling, filled a convenience store parking lot not far beyond the barricade. Police cars from across the state lined the street, and most of their associated officers stood in a row, being pressed in by a loud crowd. A sergeant saw their approach and separated himself from the rest. He looked maybe ten years their senior, and Sam assessed him as smarter than average, mostly from the way he inspected their advance and didn't fall all over himself to pawn responsibility off on someone else. The officer lifted his chin in acknowledgment, and Sam slipped off his sunglasses for a little bit of drama. He let his brother move slightly ahead.

"Officer," Dean said, giving the man a bit of a smile. His lack of warmth, regardless of cause, was appropriate to their grim purpose, and he and Sam pulled out their badges with weary efficiency. "I'm Agent Ehart, this is Agent Greer."

The man glanced at the badges and then at their faces. He frowned a little. "FBI? Thought you guys were already here." He motioned over his shoulder.

_Shit. _

Dean's smile dropped suddenly, and he cursed under his breath. He started to turn away, like a dozen reactions warred inside and he wasn't sure which to pick, but then he whipped back, rounding on Sam. His expression was one of controlled fury, and Sam reacted in automatic withdrawal at the sight of it. "I told you!" Dean shoved an accusatory finger in Sam's direction, angry. "They're gonna have to call for authorization, now, and _whole _office is gonna know!" And then he spun away, brushing a hand over his hair. Agitation bled off him, as he turned, turned, and he paused.

Sam watched, and let his face fall into a grimace of guilt. Whatever Dean was doing, he was going to have to play along.

Dean's posture shifted suddenly, sank under an impossible weight. He lifted his eyes toward his brother and looked expertly like a man who had lost everything. Sam found it difficult to breathe. He stared back at the desolation, unable to form a thought beyond _this is what he always keeps hidden_.

Dean turned toward the officer, not quite believing his own rotten luck, not hiding the strain that was more honest than he'd ever admit. "I can't get written up for this, man," he said carefully, a note of raw desperation in his voice. "I just . . ." He moved away, his emotion spinning him in circles. "She'll kill me. God, she's gonna kill me," he muttered, loud enough to be heard. He closed in on himself, shaking his head because words were not enough.

The officer's gaze softened in sympathy, and Sam took a step closer, trying to play the cards he'd been dealt. He caught the man's eyes and motioned to a spot a few feet away. They left Dean to his apparent despair, chewing the insides of his lips and staring at the pavement.

"Look, Officer"—Sam checked his badge—"Wyckdale. I know this isn't your problem, and you have no reason to help us out here, but this is all my fault." Sam's voice was hushed, and his guilt and pain were fresh enough that there was no need to act. "My girlfriend, she . . ." He looked away, pressed his lips together, and then looked Officer Wyckdale in the eye, like he thought the guy might just understand. "It's the job. She _hates_ the job. She hates that I'm away. Says it's her or the bureau, but this is my _life_, you know? I can't just . . . stop!" Passion had made him louder, and Sam took a moment to press himself back into a whisper. "The other night she called, and we were up late and it was—bad." He breathed deep to steady himself, embarrassed to admit the truth to stranger but being the bigger man, because Dean's career was supposedly on the line here. "I didn't get much sleep. And then we got the call to come here. And I was driving. And I guess I dozed off, cause the next thing I know we're in a ditch with a broken axle."

Wyckdale's eyes flicked from Sam's face to somewhere over his shoulder. To the car. Sometimes it really sucked having that car.

Sam pressed on, because this was the only story he had. He glanced at the car briefly. "I know, trust me. Took every card and buck we had to get the guy at the garage to sell us that, just so we could get here." He pressed his eyes shut and sighed. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and sagged. He opened his eyes to see Wyckdale frowning. "Point is . . ." Another breath. "Point is Phil doesn't deserve to get in trouble because of my problems. He's a good partner, and it's not fair. And his wife gave up a lot so he could take this job. So if you could just _please_ let us through. We'll take a quick look and be on our way. With any luck, no one at the meeting tomorrow will even notice. We'll be on the same page, and maybe we can help you guys get this thing sorted out." He gave the man his best, earnest, pleading puppy look.

The officer's frown evened out, and he glanced once at Dean, who was doing his best impression of a man not trying to overhear their conversation. Then he looked back at Sam, smirked in resignation, and gestured over his shoulder. "Hazmat suits are in the CDC truck," He said, capitulating but trying to maintain appropriate disapproval. Wyckdale's eyes wrinkled at the corners when he looked again at Dean.

Sam let out a held breath. _Thank you! _Cool relief swept through his body with such a dizzying rush that he almost forgot to keep listening.

"Take the cart up to Broadway," Wyckdale went on, focusing back on Sam. "Follow the signs at East Chestnut for Hanover Hospital."

Sam held out his hand, and the officer took it, exchanging a warm, firm shake. "Thank you," he said, meaning it, and Wyckdale nodded.

Sam went to leave, to grab Dean, but Wyckdale's voice called out behind him.

"Agent!"

_Shit. _Sam spun, heart suddenly pounding.

"Send her flowers. Expensive ones. And tell her you're sorry. They're the magic words." The man half-grinned, and Sam couldn't help but return it.

"Thanks," he said nodding. "I will."

Then he clapped Dean on the arm, squeezed between the barricades, and aimed for the hazmat trucks. Beside him, Dean blew out a gust of air and chuckled, dropping the worried husband act like just another Halloween mask. But that one look had been real. Sam was sure of it, even if he didn't know quite what it meant.

"Flowers?" Dean said, in his "Sammy, You Are So Gay" voice.

Sam slanted a look over. "What? My girlfriend hates my job," he said with a bit of defensive pride. 'Cause that had all been off the cuff, thank you very much.

"Yeah."

"Hey, at least _I _don't have poor performance." He could just _feel_ Dean's expression fall into a scowl.

"You did not just say that to me."

Sam shrugged and hurried along. "You brought it up." And now they _both_ knew where this was going.

"Sam—" Dean tried to cut him off. Failed.

"Or _didn't._"

Smirking, he side-stepped Dean's attempt to punch his arm and then gave the woman at the hazmat truck his best, pleased smile as they approached.


	3. Chapter 3

They are astronauts. And this must be the Moon.

Or at the very least, a different reality, because no place on their Earth was this civilized and this desolate in the same stroke. Sam's breathing bounced back harsh and hollow inside the helmet of his hazmat suit. Rush in, rush out. They looked like guys straight out of _Outbreak_ and a little like the ones from _Caddyshack_, as they whirred down the empty street in a government-issued golf cart. It turned out that they couldn't actually hear each other through the gear _and_ over the noise from the cart, so Sam took to pointing out the turns with short annoyed stabs at the air.

Dean wouldn't let him drive.

That fact rattled around inside, bumping into things that made him angry. He huffed and looked askance, then faltered a little through a guilty-bout, before sinking into a sulky silence. He'd broken the final seal, not gotten a DUI, but either Dean had decided he was unilaterally incompetent or had regressed to a five-year-old. Well, fine. Dean could find his own fucking way to the hospital, then. Dean nearly put the cart on two wheels at the turn onto East Chestnut. They didn't comment on it, which actually took tremendous control on Sam's part. He put his energy into taking in their surroundings instead.

Real ghost towns were nothing like this. Most of the time real ghost towns didn't feel haunted so much as pathetic. The buildings begged for someone to put them out of their misery, let them fall and rest and come apart. Stubborn iron and the proficient hands of man kept them standing, wind-blown, long past their natural lives. The town of Hanover's streets had cars, some still running, businesses open for customers, green grass, and functional traffic lights. Just no people. Like they'd all been plucked up and dropped elsewhere, mid-stride. A lifetime's worth of survival training screamed at the uncanny nature of it. _Everything _was wrong, and Sam kept looking and tensing, but finding nothing. His patience spun out into a thin thread.

Hanover Hospital was surrounded by ambulances and cars gathered at the ER door like flies. Their lights spun soundlessly as the Winchesters pulled up to the doors and got out. They turned to look at one another through the small clear windows of the suit hoods. Dean looked edgy, haunted. Red swathes of light reflected off his helmet. Sam motioned toward the door.

Inside was . . .

Just beyond the automatic door, Sam stopped moving as if he'd been bolted in place. _Mother of God. _His breath left in one long, cold exhale. He'd expected something bad, but not _this_. Not the aftermath of war. A battlefield in sterile halls. People in business suits slumped in chairs in the waiting room. Nurses and orderlies sprawled on the floor, whatever they had been carrying strewn around them. People had come in their pajamas. They had brought their children. Every face twisted in a rictus of agony, mouths open and coated in rusty dried blood. They lay in broken angles. On beds and half off them. Under each other, holding one another. He'd never seen so many dead people all at once. The magnitude just . . . fuck. This was what he'd done. This here. This _everywhere_. Fuck . . . fuck.

The television in the kids' waiting area flashed with cartoons, drawing Sam's eyes. His shallow gasps were an insult to the silence, and in them he could hear his own fear.

Castiel stood in triage, unmoving. Besides the Winchesters, he was the only thing standing. Dean had done his share of dumb staring as they'd walked in, but as soon as he'd seen Cas, that's where his gaze had stayed. The angel didn't turn or seem to notice their presence, which was no kind of good. Even Sam found it a little freakish.

"Cas?" Dean said, voice cautious and muffled as he approached the angel's back.

"You can take your helmets off." Castiel's voice came out low and empty, lacking command.

Sam pulled off his helmet and set it on the closest countertop with a slow, uncertain reverence. He watched Dean drop his to the floor and slowly circle around Cas like assessing a wild animal. It was a caution born of necessity, trial and error. They could both light up like flash paper, cutting into each other blindly. Sam had seen it, nursed the wounds. They both had broken edges that required a gentle hand.

"Cas?" Dean said again, this time reaching out and touching the angel's fingers. Cas tensed. Then, his hand twitched in response and recognition.

Dean maneuvered himself until he caught Castiel's eyes, and this along with the tender grip of hands seemed to win him some attention. For a long moment, they stared at one another. Emotions quick and subtle flickered on Castiel's face, darkened and flashed in his eyes. Sam only recognized sorrow and guilt. But Dean saw others made of memory and shared experience and whispered dark confessions. Despite the wounds, they came back, always, and this was why. In response to Cas's silent litany, Dean stepped closer and rubbed his thumb over the back of the angel's hand, never looking away.

Then, "I couldn't save them," Cas said in a voice of broken, stubborn suffering. Castiel's gaze shifted, and Dean turned to follow it. "Any of them." They were looking at a bed where the corpse of a mother held the body of a dead little girl. "I tried, I---" Cas's voice cracked, and Dean moved instinctively closer. Pain, whose source lay beyond these hospital walls, struck through the angel like a tolling bell. He quaked with it, and his gaze settled on Dean's chest. "But they all died anyway," he said through tight lips.

"It's not your fault," Dean said in that intense, protective way of his as he slipped a gentle palm to Castiel's cheek.

"I am an _angel_," the reply shook with indignation and rage.

And then Sam looked away. As much as Cas's anger was about here and now, it was about other things, too. Ones he didn't quite want to think about. There was some wrinkling of fabric. The low rumble of Castiel's voice. The indistinct mutter of Dean's reply. Then a silence where Sam took to looking around the ER for a distraction. In retrospect, that was probably worse than accidentally watching his brother making out.

Sam ended up looking at the receptionist. She was bent over her desk, one arm flung by her head. The other hung toward the floor. Dark rhagades pocked her skin, still glistening with ooze. Her one upturned palm was smeared with blood.

So many dead . . . Somehow, it was different seeing people stacked like things---just, _ruined._

Sam swallowed.

Dean cleared his throat, because he _could_ actually be generous at times, and Sam jumped. He whirled around to find them separated, but only barely. If he'd had someone to cling to, he'd've been doing so, too. Sam looked uneasily around and then met Castiel's heavy gaze. The angel looked him up and down, and Sam adjusted his shoulders under the scrutiny as though it could ease the aching sorrow that pressed heavy on his breastbone. He wondered if Dean'd told him that he didn't want to be here---in Dean's words it would have been _didn't want to help_. Or maybe that was the look he was going to get from now on, like he was some curious goo on the bottom of someone's shoe. And yet, he really couldn't blame him. Cas had--- Well Cas had given up everything, and the world was still pretty well fucked.

Sam cleared his throat, and couldn't quite look Castiel in the eye when he spoke. "What happened, Cas? What did you see?"

The angel's expression shifted and he slumped. "Nothing. All of them were already ill by the time I got here. It was chaos. Ambulances brought people in, but---" He shook his head slightly, gaze touching on the dead. "It was pointless. Their medicines and doctoring were pointless."

"Is it a virus?" Sam asked, drawing the angel's attention back.

Castiel squinted slightly at the question. "Yes and no."

Sam worked his mouth, about to reply, when Cas went on.

"These people were not passing it between one another. It developed spontaneously from within."

Dean watched him. "And you know this because?"

Castiel turned and watched back. "Because people from opposite ends of town died at the same time. It could not cover that distance so rapidly."

The elder Winchester made a sound at that, seeming to appreciate the clever if damning deduction. He turned his eyes away and started looking around at the wreckage. A troubled expression settled on his face.

"Why are they all still here?" Dean breathed to no one in particular. "Shouldn't this place be, I dunno, cleaned up?"

"Evidence," Castiel's voice dropped heavy in the air. "Many people have been here already, taking photos and putting things in small bags. They'll be coming back to catalog the bodies. We shouldn't be here when they arrive."

Sam gave the ER a baleful, hopeless look and found himself staring at the receptionist again. Her head had nearly crashed into a glass of water on her desk. He could see her nose distorted by the refraction.

Struck, he looked up sharply.

"Water supply."

And Dean's eyes flashed as he nodded in confirmation. "They've got city water, so there's gotta be a central pumping station. Cas?" Dean turned an expectant look the angel's way, and Sam scurried over so as not to get left behind.

"Slagle's Run Raw Water Pumping Station." Cas frowned at them both. "But Dean, I don't think---"

"C'mon man, I'm actually asking here. How often do I ask you to spread your wings and fly?" Dean's eyebrow quirked into a lewd look.

Cas sighed, exasperated.

Dean pressed. "Do we or do we not have to avoid the authorities?"

"Yes, but---"

"Then make with the magic."

Dean got a tight-lipped glare and a huff of impatience. But Castiel was Castiel, and sometimes maybe taking orders was just habit. He tapped them out of the hospital on a flutter of angel wings.

XXX

Somewhere beneath their feet water rushed with a steady, vibrating rumble they could feel up through their knees. Sam spun around to get his bearings. The place was shockingly clean, sparse, and _dry_. Just the inside of a warehouse with some metal piping and big motors. Who'd've thunk? Sam pictured vast pools of water, rusted damp pipes, totally cool 1890s industrial iron works, and some kind of internal whirlpool waterfall thing, you know, for effect. Reality could be such a let down.

"What are we looking for?" Castiel asked with patient longsuffering now that he was allowed to speak.

Dean gave him a close look. "Your spidey-sense isn't tingling, is it?" Which was answered with a slightly confused frown. "Demons," Dean elaborated. "Can you sense any demons."

The angel didn't move his eyes from Dean. "No."

"Damn."

Castiel shot them both a curious look. "Why did you think there would be?"

Sam took that one. "On the way in," he said, "we drove by a lake. All the fish were dead."

A sage nod from their angel of the Lord. "That explains your odor."

Dean snorted.

Sam deadpanned and tugged at his collar underneath the suit. "Yeah," he replied, self-consciously. They were finding the nearest dry cleaner as soon as this was over. Possibly, the nearest Mens Wearhouse.

A small change in the set of Castiel's shoulders made him look more serious, an accomplishment really.

"The lake," he intoned. "Was it boiling?"

"Boiling?" Sam repeated in surprise and looked at Dean. "No . . ." he hedged.

"Kinda foggy though," His brother added helpfully.

Castiel slanted a glance over. "Could it have been steam?"

"Uhm," Dean said and exchanged shrugs with his brother. "I guess so? If I say yes, does that help?"

The angel looked thoughtful and glanced at them both, doing some kind of calculation that he didn't seem to think was necessary to share. "It's important, but it is only one clue."

"Well, that's great. All the options _really _suck, then?"

Castiel offered a bitter grin. "Boiling lakes are rarely a good thing."

Dean sighed and held his face in his hand for a second. Sam's gaze connected with his brother's, and they stared at one another. Then Dean blew out a breath. "Okay, so, let's say we assume it's a demon, 'cause what isn't, these days. And being a demon, one town won't be the end of this. We need to figure out where it's going to go next, blip there first, and waste the S.O.B. before another city bites the dust."

Sam got that sinking feeling in his gut, and heard a little voice saying _Danger, Will Robinson_ all over his internal monologue. He opened his mouth to speak, but Cas beat him to it.

"I disagree."

Dean's eyebrows nearly hit the roof.

"Cas is right," Sam found himself saying. His brother's jaw snapped shut, and Castiel gave him a small look of pride. "We don't even know _if _it's a demon. Could be a spell. Could be anything. And you just heard Cas. He can't heal us if something goes wrong. Like it or not, man, we go in blind on this and we're dead."

Dean's scowl deepened with each word and fire blazed in his eyes but, at least, it meant he was listening.

"Sam's assessment is accurate, Dean. I'm sorry. It is an unacceptable risk." The angel's voice held a timber of apology, and something deeper, something that made Dean turn to look at him.

The two of them exchanged one of their long soul gazes that made Sam feel like the guy on the other side of the glass. Sam flexed a gloved hand impatiently, watching them only because there was nothing else to watch. By degrees, Dean's scowl evened out and Cas's worried look grew more confident. When Dean finally replied, he was calm. "Ok, so that puts us out. What about you?" he said to Cas.

Castiel's eyes dropped to the floor, scanning back and forth in thought, then slowly dragged their way back up to Dean's face. "I don't know," he said softly, embarrassment evident in the tense draw of his shoulders.

Dean sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Unacceptable risk," he muttered, and turned away pacing a few steps just to think.

Even as Sam watched them, he'd been thinking. "Hey, Cas?" The angel brought shocking blue regard Sam's way. "What would you need in order to tell if this is a demon we're after?"

A slight frown. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, would you have to be there when the epidemic hits? Can you _smell_ demons afterward? What?"

Understanding dawned. "If I'm close enough, I can read its essence, but that radius is quite small. Or if there's a signature of its presence, that I could read."

"Signature?" Sam asked, his heart rate picking up. "Like sulfur traces?"

"Like sulfur traces," Castiel nodded vaguely.

Signatures. Oh, this was important. This was _good_. Sam started to pace, his blood suddenly pounding with excitement. Shreds of demon lore and arcane knowledge touched on one another, knitting together. His pace quickened, and he found his hands flying through the air with a language all their own.

"Any time you wanna share, Sam." Dean's voice pierced the weaving of his mind. He spun and took quick strides toward them, concepts, no no, fucking _brilliance_ knocking him breathless. Sam brushed a hand through his hair, which was tough given the glove, and tried to order his thoughts into words.

"Ok. Ok, so, the people got sick and died, different places same time, right? So it wasn't a spreading virus or a bacteria or anything." He looked at Cas, who nodded. "Ok, so it's not in the air, and it's not in the water. So what if . . . what if it's a demon, _but_ the demon's not _releasing _anything." Dean narrowed his eyes at him. "What if"---and this was the bit of brilliance---"what if it's like his aura. I mean, archangels have auras, right?"

"Yes." Castiel said the word like the breaking sun of dawn.

Sam tried not to bounce, but bounced a little anyway. "Right! And we've felt that. I mean, it isn't physical, but it _affects_ the physical. The fear is real, even if you know it's coming. And fight or flight is all chemical!"

Castiel's astonished gaze roamed Sam's face and then Dean's. "It provokes a response in your nervous system. If what we are after is a fallen archangel, that could make sense."

Booyah! Sam's proud smile nearly cracked his face. Who's useless now, huh? Not that he expected a pat on the back, but they'd know, and he'd know they knew. Cas gave him a look that he couldn't understand, but it ended with the twitch of a grin. Sam chose to think it was approval, from one brainiac to another.

Dean set his fists against his hips and peered at Castiel with hope. "Does that mean you know who it is?"

The angel's face fell. He sighed, and looked at the pump station's concrete floor. "No." For a second it seemed like that was all he had to say, but Dean looked expectant, so Sam _felt _expectant, and eventually Cas lifted his head. A clever smile shaped his mouth as he looked at them both. "But . . . humans are not the only things affected by our presence."

Dean shot Sam an animated look. "Electricity."

"Lightbulbs."

Dean tried to snap his fingers, making a squidgy sound. "Video tape!"

"Old-fashioned film?" With a rush of urgency, they both looked at Castiel, who was nodding.

Jackpot. Now this? This sounded like a plan. The apprehension bundled and aching in Sam's shoulders started to ease some at that thought that they weren't going to just throw themselves to the lions on this one.

"Right," Dean said, coming to some kind of conclusion on a deliberation he didn't share. "Cas, you see what you can find on security cameras. Sam and I will look for a camera shop."

Sam blinked. "What? No! Dean---"

"Sam," his brother growled back.

_Oh, fuck you, alpha dog._ Sam stepped forward, glaring, too tired of this Sam's Incompetent crap to actually hide it anymore. "Dean, it's a camera shop. I've got it."

Dean glared back, clearly pissed at the challenge. His body arranged itself in a fighting stance as Sam got closer, but he didn't back down.

"Dean, c'mon, man. This is stupid. You can't treat me like this!"

Dean lifted his chin and kept glaring. When Sam didn't automatically give up, he looked elsewhere. Weariness touched his eyes, and a silent struggle followed. Then, "I'm coming with you."

Anger flashed quick and hot through Sam's veins. "It's a simple job, Dean. You don't have to babysit me."

Dean shoved forward with a look on his face like maybe he felt he did. But Castiel put a hand on his arm. Didn't pull him or anything, just rested it there, and Sam could see the pissed off just bleed out of him.

Dean gave Cas's hand a look, a long look, before relenting. He grumbled a "fine" under his breath.

While Sam would've preferred winning the right to do menial labor on his own, he gave Castiel a look of thanks and took his win.

XXX

There are a few things one can reasonably expect from any small town. One: a greasy spoon near the center of town. Two: a post office near the center of town. And three: a bank near the center of town. It was a theory Dean had been working on about the necessary things in life. Maybe he'd write a book.

For complicated, personal, and highly angelic reasons, Castiel chose to flap them into Graystone Bank. Dean blinked rapidly at the sudden appearance of close walls and carpeted floors.

"This is near the center of town?" he asked.

"Yes," Cas answered from a spot closer than Dean normally let people stand.

Dean nodded, scanning the interior. He started for the cashier's counter. "How far's the post office?" he asked lightly.

Castiel watched him without moving to follow. "Two-hundred and eighty-nine feet."

Ha! Dean chuckled and vaulted himself up onto the counter, then over.

"That's funny?" The angel was suddenly right at the counter, like they were going to make a transaction.

Dean shrugged, shaking his head, a smile on his lips. "Naw, it's . . . nothing." He pulled off his gloves and tossed them on the floor. When he glanced up, Cas was grinning faintly back at him. He looked, for just this fleeting moment, like he wasn't pondering the mystery of his own creation or strangling the crystalline memories that haunted his lonely hours. These last few minutes between the hospital and here had been the most time they'd spent together in a week or more. He missed him. Not that he felt so desperate yet as to say it, but it was there, pulsing just beneath his skin. When Cas left, without a word, he wondered where he was going. When he returned, quiet and distant, just to see how they were getting along, he wondered where he'd been. Dean stopped trying to open the cash drawer and lifted his gaze toward his companion. He must've looked serious, because Cas's faint smile faded. It wasn't the effect Dean was going for, and damn him if he was going to screw up this chance with heavy thoughts and painful worry.

He smiled, forcing an expression that filled with genuine warmth once he saw it echoed on his lover's face. Suddenly, Dean leaned across the counter.

"Hey," he breathed, looking right into those eyes that shocked his heart to life.

"Hey," came the low reply.

Dean smiled invitingly and let his gaze linger on Cas's lips. It was Castiel who leaned in the rest of the way, though it was Dean who made the kiss soft and sweet-- something reassuring, something that said _stay with me_. Dean pulled back just enough so he could focus on his angel's face and was satisfied with the pleased expression he found there. It was almost too bad they had matters to attend to.

Dean ticked his head sideways, motioning down. "Think you could pop this?" He tapped the cashier's till and flashed Cas a wicked smile.

Castiel quirked an eyebrow and looked down at, or maybe through, the countertop. "Yes. But why?"

_Why?_ Dean chuckled. "Because, genius, it's full of money. And this job pays like shit." He rolled back to give the angel room to work his magic.

"You steal." Castiel just stared at him, _aghast_ or something.

Another bubble of laughter escaped Dean's throat as Cas's expression became downright scandalized. "How do you think we live, man? Stolen credit cards and insurance schemes. This"---he motioned to the as yet unopened cash of cash---"is kinda legit for us."

Castiel glanced down at the counter and then back up, unconvinced. He frowned, and for a second Dean thought he was going to get a lecture on moral fortitude. But Cas's stance on morality had always been kinda slippery anyway, in Dean's opinion, so he wasn't terribly surprised when the angel made a thoughtful _hmm _sound and then put his hand on the countertop. The till popped open with a small click, and a smile as big as the sky lit Dean's face. He grabbed the nearest garbage basket, up ended it, and filled it full of cash. "If they made one of those 'mine can beat up yours' T-shirts for us," Dean said, gesturing between them, "you'd almost be able to make me wear it."

The slightly confused but indulgent look he got for that comment was right up there on his list of favorites. He'd do a lot for that look, he thought to himself. More than anybody really needed to know.

Dean cleared his throat. Now, down to the _real _business. "Right, security cameras." Dean clutched the bag of money in his fist and turned around. Door to the left, and a door to the right. By the contours of the other interior walls, the door to the left was a pretty small room. And another door opened onto the main floor. Dean would bet money that was a break room. Well, not _this _money, but the hypothetical worthless money that Sammy was in debt to for at least a trillion. So, Dean went right, and automatically reached for his back pocket where his lock picks were---his fingers slipped against the yellow material of the hazmat suit.

"Crap."

"Step back." Cas was still standing on the other side of the counter. And then suddenly he wasn't, and Dean was staring at the back of his head as he mojoed the security room door open, feeling his proximity like a charge in the air.

Stupid as it was, even the back of his head made Dean think of sex, with that wild Grab Me hair. Hell, _all _of Cas made him think of sex, which in his opinion they hadn't been getting enough of lately. Cause a man had needs, ya know. And because he was Dean and some things you just couldn't pass up, he slid right up behind Castiel, bracing his hands on Cas's upper arms and bringing his lips to the angel's ear. He made sure they were pressed together as closely as could be.

Dean rumbled low and breathy, "I love it when you break and enter," and twitched his hips. To his delight, he felt Castiel's body shiver, and then he let him go, hoping that the reminder would leave a lasting impression. Hoping that whatever kept Cas away wasn't nearly as enticing as what Dean would offer if he stayed.

After a pause to collect his composure, Cas went in the security office, looking over the bevy of equipment Dean was sure he didn't know how to operate. Hell, he wasn't sure _he _knew how to operate it. But all they really needed was the rewind button. How hard could that be?

Turned out, not at all. The tape they wanted was the one currently in the machine, and seriously, all Dean had to do was hit rewind. He let it play while it went back, so they could see what'd happened. It was both the most boring and most terrifying thing he'd seen on a TV. Hours of nothing, of no one. Just daylight outside and no cars moving from where they'd been. Dean peeked his head out once to look out the front door. Yeah. Same cars.

Then it was people running backwards back in the door, jerking around like busted marionettes. They spun, flailed too quickly, doubled over. An ambulance came and delivered a man onto the bank floor. He staggered to his feet, wiped sweat back onto his forehead, and then hobbled back beyond the camera's scope. It was uncanny watching a man un-die. Dean shifted uncomfortably and tore his eyes away. He watched Cas instead.

He watched the way the light from the screens reflected off the angel's eyes. The way he blinked slowly, and paid attention with incredible focus. Lines formed around his eyes when he squinted. Dean couldn't quite tell, but he thought Cas didn't really know that he was stunning. He accepted it when Dean told him so, with the same amused fondness he accepted half the opinions Dean felt like sharing. It always made Dean wonder if he could have chosen a better phrase, so just once Cas would _see_. He'd seen Jimmy and he'd seen Castiel, and there was no mistaking the two. Dean grinned to himself and thought maybe he'd try telling him _that_.

Suddenly, Castiel's pale face was lit by a burst of white light from the screen, and he gasped.

"What?" Dean straightened, alert, and shot a look at the screen.

"No!"

Castiel was up and moving faster than Dean could register. His hand clamped over Dean's eyes, and he shoved them both back out of the room. "Do _not_ look at it."

"Wh--- at what? Cas! Man, lemme go!"

He removed his hand, and Dean stared, freaked and a little annoyed.

"You can't look at him," The angel's eyes blazed, and he crowded Dean back against the counter.

"The demon . . ." Dean said, because cryptic angel talk was _not _helping. Nor was the way Cas had him pinned. It set off fight instincts that only served to kick his freaked into overdrive. "The camera got a picture of the demon?"

Castiel opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He slowly became aware of apprehension in Dean's eyes, though, and made space while he struggled for a reply. Dean watched him amend what he was going to say a few times before settling on: "No. It . . . captured the symbol of his essence."

"Uh-huh." So about that cryptic angel talk. ". . . and that means?"

"It's the representation of his true self in immaterial written form."

Dean frowned at that and had to run it through a few times before he could squeeze out any meaning. "So . . . it's his name."

"It is _more _than his name. It . . ." Cas pursed his lips in frustration and lifted his eyes skyward. Eventually, he shook his head and sought out Dean's gaze in resignation. "Please, just trust me on this. Asag was once Azgrathan. Sam's guess was astute. He _was _an archangel."

Dean took his time replying, because half his brain was too busy processing the fear rolling off his angel to come up with words. Cas's eyes were far too wide and far too blue. His whole body curled in tension each quickened breath. "What is he now?" Dean asked, forced to say something.

Castiel's jaw flexed. "Horrifying."

An eyebrow lifted. "So horrifying that I can't even _see_ him?"

"It . . . may cause the disease if you do," Cas said darkly, drawing unthinkingly closer, as though he could ward off that fate by sheer proximity.

"From an image," Dean said, clearly unconvinced.

"That has captured the symbolic representation of---"

"Right, okay, got it." Dean held his hands up in surrender. He leaned back against the counter, of his own volition this time, and gave his companion a serious look. "So what do you know about this Azgrathan."

Castiel's gaze grew unfocused for a second. He turned away, meandering for a bit. The rush of fear passed during his silence, and when he finally answered, it was more softly than Dean was expecting. "He was The Gardener . . ."

"That anything like The Lawnmower Man?" Dean smirked, but his humor fell flat, and he grew quiet in his self-consciousness. With a gesture, he urged Castiel on.

"He tended the Garden of Eden," the angel said with solemn calm. He faced Dean, but his gaze penetrated somewhere beyond Dean's shoulder, probably somewhere a lot further beyond that. "He made sure everything grew and all of God's creatures were nourished." A small smile formed on Cas's lips. "Flowers bloomed in his wake. Fruit grew heavy." When he finally looked at Dean it was with wide, imploring eyes. "He wasn't so much beautiful as he was awe-inspiring. Like the sunrise."

The sheer wonder in Cas's voice made Dean's heart lift. He found himself picturing a morning in the Rockies, with pink clouds and golden light and that tickle of anticipation just before the sun's disc came into view over the jagged peaks. Seemed pretty beautiful to him, but maybe angels had their own kind of scale for that sort of thing.

"We basked in him," Cas said, disbelief and a smile in his words.

"Not an image I needed, thanks."

The angel blinked, and Dean got the impression that he was back in the present. Echoes of joys Dean could never know blazed and then slowly died in Cas's eyes. He looked smaller and more fragile without them. Pain squeezed in Dean's chest, and he made an effort to let his sympathy show. He briefly touched Castiel's rough jaw line, just to let him know that we was there.

"So . . . now that he's a demon, things around him die?"

A resigned nod. "Things die. And he is always hungry."

Dean's stomach did this little shake, like it was getting ready for the bad part. It must have recognized that look on Cas's face. The slightly reluctant, somewhat apologetic, but mostly Sayer of Doom one. _Always hungry_.

Dean let his eyes fall shut. "Always hungry," he repeated.

"For---"

"Do not tell me he eats dead people," Dean said in his reprimanding voice.

There was no reply.

A quick chill wiped all Dean's strength away in one second, but in the next a rush of heated anger had him pushing off the counter. "Aww, man! That is _beyond_ gross!"

"He that eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, dwelleth in me, and I in him," Cas quoted softly.

"Yeah? Well, I always thought _that _was pretty gross, too." Dean clutched the bag of money tighter in his fist and strode away, slamming through the break room and out into the lobby, turning only when he'd reached the door. He thought furiously but willed himself to speak like he was sane. "So, basically, Asag just shot fish in a barrel. And there's a very good chance he's out there right now chowing down on a bunch of corpses."

"Basically, yes."

_God_, he hated demons. Dean drew a breath and wiped his face with one hand. They were going to need a plan, which meant---

"Shit! Where's Sam?" Dean dropped the money and struggled to get a hand back through his suit.

"I don't know, I hid you both from my sight." Cas took a step from where he stood behind the cashier's counter and appeared at Dean's side.

"God dammit!" Dean jerked and stretched to reach his cell phone, his pulse beating loud in his ears.


	4. Chapter 4

Not everyone made it to the hospital, Sam discovered.

Not everyone tried.

The door to the camera shop opened quietly on its hinges as Sam pushed his way in. He scanned the interior of the store once, quickly, and his eyes fell on a man lying halfway between the counter and the door. He was wearing a business shirt and a sweater vest. Perhaps he'd been trying to run. Sam glanced at the wall of camera bags and the bag laying not inches from the dead man's hand. Perhaps he'd been caught dead doing his job.

The muscle in Sam's jaw twitched. It wasn't that hard to imagine, really. Doing your job right up until the end, surrendering not to the enemy, but to the fight. The weight of guilt pressed against Sam's chest, but he blinked it away.

With apologies skirting on his tongue, he took the man by the forearms and dragged him out of the shop, struggling with the door as he came to it. The body seemed heavier than it should have. Sam got a vision of himself doing just this, carrying the dead and the combined weight of their hopes, dreams, and futures, endlessly, endlessly over blasted plains. He scowled as his hands went clammy and swallowed down his dread. Hell existed. Such a thing might happen.

Sam set the man up against the outside wall, taking care to make him look like he was resting there by choice. He set the man's hands one over the other in his lap. It was stupid, really. Like anyone would notice or care. Even as he did it, Sam couldn't explain the impulse, only that it felt like the right thing to do. Bring out yer dead, and all. That, and he couldn't quite imagine rifling through the shop while the dead clerk was still there, slowly rotting away. Not able to protect what had been entrusted to him. He'd leave him with that dignity at least.

Satisfied, Sam darted back inside and started his search.

There wasn't much to the store, all told. What with the Internet and digital cameras, why would there be? Some glass counters held the new merchandise for sale. A solid counter with a cash register was built parallel to the door, so someone could watch customers as they came and went. Behind that, the photo processing machine and against the right wall, a small fridge. Jackpot. Film keeps better in the cold, which he knew for the same reason he knew half the shit he did: endless hours of Jeopardy as a kid. Trebek ended an _era_ when he shaved the stache, and Sam still hadn't quite forgiven him, even if he was over throwing popcorn at the TV.

The top few shelves of the fridge thankfully held rolls of film in their white and green boxes, just like Sam imagined—modern antiques preserved for the few ardent acolytes for whom the process is part of the result, the art is in the making. Sam slid open the door and grabbed two rolls. His gaze touched on a brown bag and can of Coke on the bottom shelf, and he slid the door shut with a little more effort than needed.

Finding the film wasn't the problem. The problem was _doing _something with it, turning it from useless film to a useful photograph. It took a few minutes of tossing open drawers and scattering curses and papers like autumn leaves before Sam found what he was looking for.

Not that it helped actually. You would _think _that a smart person with a user's manual could actually operate the intended to device. Sam could translate Latin on the fly now, piece together Ancient Greek, and was making headway on fucking Coptic, but this, apparently, was testing his skills. He held the processing lab manual in one hand and tapped at the controls on the screen with the other. Three empty film canisters lined the side of the machine—dead, light-exposed soldiers keeping watch over attempt number four. Sam's bright blue hazmat gloves lay discarded on the floor clean across the room.

He squinted at the screen, read the directions again, and jabbed at the buttons cautiously. For God's sake, it was a _machine_ and he had the _directions_. He held his breath, listening for some evidence that the beast was finally going to run the film and for the love of _God_ just develop the damn roll. A progress bar popped up on the screen, and a small motor clicked into gear. _Thank—_

"Sam."

He shrieked, sounding halfway like a girl, and flailed. The manual dropped. Canisters scattered.

Sam whirled, his heart pounding, adrenaline rushing through his limbs.

"Gabriel?" He gasped, fight or flight instinct still stretching his senses tight. A clenched fist hung in the air.

The thin line of a frown marred the archangel's face as he looked down.

"Since when can you . . . without all the—" Sam made a gesture of fireworks exploding and stared up, looking a little gob smacked.

Despite the seriousness of his expression, Gabriel let a smirk touch his lips. "Theatrics? Since always," he replied easily. Which prompted a few questions that Sam was gonna save for later. Gabriel sought his companion's eyes, with simmering urgency. "Sam, we have to go."

Sam frowned at that. _Go? _He turned to look at the processing lab, humming away, and the progress bar just reaching 50 percent. "But I _just_ got this running. It should only take a couple of minu—"

"There isn't—" Gabriel's strong voice cut him off. And then nothing.

Sam rotated on the little stool and peered up at the angel's sudden silence. He was staring straight ahead, towards the front of the shop and out into the road. He didn't blink. Didn't twitch. If he even breathed, it was so slight and controlled a motion as to slip under perception. His stillness and focus were razor sharp.

Sam chanced cutting himself on them. "Gabriel?" His tone was hushed. He might as well have not existed for all the reply he got.

With a swiftness and precision born from millennia of combat, the archangel suddenly made for the door. His gaze never left the road, yet he swerved around the film lab effortlessly. Stepped and vaulted the counter with one arm, never breaking his stalking stride. His motion had the flow of a dancer, the balanced grace of an acrobat, and the heavy power of a great cat. His right hand opened and then clasped closed around the hilt of a sword that he summoned from folds of light warping reality.

A _Gladius Hispaniensis_, a beautiful deadly weapon of art—a match in all ways to its owner. Blue flames like butterflies swarmed up and down the blade. The aura that Gabriel held so tightly in check roared outward like blossoming fire until his presence and power filled the small, weak walls of the photo shop.

The front door punched out and off its hinges ahead of Gabriel's advance. He spun, without missing a step, and raised the sword to point at Sam.

"Don't try to help. And _do not_ look." Anger laced the archangel's words, issued with a royal bearing.

At some point Sam had gotten to his feet. "What?" Confused fear flashed cold in his veins, and he felt the angel's glare slice into him. "Wh— Gabriel!" Sam rounded the lab and started to weave around the counter.

Gabriel turned. Everything erupted.

Flashbulbs went off, bright, white hot blinding, and then exploded. From inside the counters, from the walls, flashes and sharp reports. Sam flinched on instinct and ducked as the lights overhead sparked and burst. He crouched behind the counter, shielding his face from a spray of glass, unable to see anything but the dark blue clouds that swam in his vision, edged by the yellow of his hazmat suit.

That had, of course, been Gabriel's plan.

Struck suddenly by the heavy silence, Sam lowered his arms and shook off the shards. Angry indignation spiked quick and burning from his gut, and he turned to peer over the counter, just as he'd been told not to. He didn't need to be _managed_ any more than he needed help taking a piss. He blinked furiously and was just able to make out Gabriel's dark form standing in the middle of the street, objects—birds—flapping and raining down around him.

_Don't try to help. And do not look._

He heard the words again, but differently, colored with an emotion more complex than fury. Sam fell back down, breathing heavily, and tried to think. His hands flexed, empty. More precisely, weaponless. The yawning space in his chest shot with a stabbing pain, and his body curved around it. Panic. Panic that he was out here alone. Panic that his best true weapon was gone, his power ripped from his being. They should have gotten the Impala through the checkpoint. At least then he'd have gun, at least then he'd have—

The floor began to shake.

Sam stared down, eyes widening, as tiny bits of broken glass tinkled like cracking ice across the floor. Before he could really hear it, he could feel it. A deep thundering that rolled through the earth and into his body, vibrating the empty cavities within him. It was an invasion beyond his control, and that alone conjured a primal dread.

The vibration became sound. An approaching train, an avalanche. Stone on stone clacking and beating, roaring from the violence of earth's making. Sam swallowed hard and was unable to feel it for the calamity that swept all around, shaking what was left of the store to destruction.

The first thought he could manage was that this had to be the demon. The second was that Gabriel went out to face it alone.

The roaring peaked to a painful concussiveness. Something screamed. And the thunder rolled on.

Sam grabbed the edge of the counter and swung himself up to standing. His eyes caught a trailing cloud of black smoke and lifting bodies of birds, but that was all. The street was empty, and for a second all Sam could do was stare at the spot where Gabriel had been, his heart battering furiously against his ribs. Before reason could recommend a course, he was covering the distance to the door in long lopes. Momentum carried him out onto the sidewalk, and he peered up and down the street, raking a hand through his hair, mouthing the archangel's name.

Somewhere, not too far off, tearing metal broke the quiet with a tortured wail. Then a crash. Stone breaking. The skies darkened with flocks: blackbirds, crows, even owls pulled from their slumber by the force of Gabriel's being. They shifted and dodged through the air, moving in time with the forces of the battle below and screaming their calls with noisy abandon. Sam's eyes darted, searching for the source. For the length of two heartbeats, he stood rooted to the spot. He _needed_ a weapon.

Another crack of breaking building made Sam flinch, and he swiped a hand over his face as he tried to think over top of the riotous demands of his body to _act_. The image of a church spire flashed through his mind. On the drive in, he remembered seeing one. In old towns like this, churches were still often the tallest buildings around, and he remembered the shape of it against the skyline. It might not be much, but a church would have holy water, and that was better than nothing. He could be a distraction maybe. Give Gabriel an edge. What he couldn't do was just stand around, waiting for an outcome, waiting to see if everyone came back through the door alive. He used to pray for them, but that was kinda pointless anymore.

Focused and energized merely by having a plan, Sam ran out into the road, spinning, searching for the church spire he'd seen. There were only mixed-use stores and apartments of equal height, all blocking his view. He cursed and started trotting down the block. Then turned onto a crossroad to bring himself further east. The roads were an obstacle course of cars. Many were simply abandoned. Some people, though, must have died with their foot on the gas, because cars were wrapped around poles or smashed through the sides of offices and stores. _Post-Apocalyptic_ really was the right term, after needed _I am Legend _when you lived it?

Heavy rattles of thunder pounded out from the north, shaking the ground. Sam stopped in the middle of the street to listen, straining to see anything of the fight that was going on. A dust cloud blew out into the road, and he startled when a car sailed through the air and into the second storey of a building across the way. Harmonic howling followed, filling the air with broken chords of agony. Sam stumbled and cried out as he tried to run away from the source, from the pain, and he clamped his hands over his ears in a desperate attempt to block it out. His bones heard it anyway, shivering with a flourish of agony he could not have described. Like his flesh wanted to separate, his bones seep through to the outside. Spikes of pain lanced through his eyes and into his skull.

Sam ran ragged for an alleyway, heaving. _Be safe. Be small. Hide!_ His lizard brain shouted short, undeniable advice, and though the supernatural sound could reach him no matter how dark his surroundings, he flung himself into a sheltered space anyway, sank low next to a Dumpster, and shook. Uncontrolled tears of pain slipped down his cheeks, as he squeezed, squeezed everything in. Curled in his knees, crushed his hands to his ears, and tried desperately to become not worth noticing.

The howling cut off as suddenly as it had started.

Sam's huge, gasping breaths became the sound of wind tunnels in his ears. His bones settled back in their places, and slowly, delicately, he removed his hands. Still shaking, he pushed himself to his feet. The thundering had stopped as well, and a pregnant, awful silence settled over the town instead. Sam edged along the rough brick wall and peeked out, harboring a faint hope that he'd see a black figure and blue sword swaggering down the street.

Empty.

He glanced up and, from this angle, could see the very top of a church tower. Hope like a lighting match flared in his chest. If he'd given it any thought, he might've laughed. A whole pool of holy water might just piss off whatever this demon was, if he was lucky. Any amount he was likely to find would be insufficient at best. And yet unarmed and impotent was worse.

Vulnerability stuck like slime on his skin. He could feel it, the weakness of it, the way it made his stomach turn. It felt like weeks, alone, in a cold room sheltering a pain the shape of Dean's name. Like the weight of a shovel in his hand. Like an empty night and a full moon and a crossroads in the country where no demon would deign to tread its feet. Like his own voice filling the car with jokes left half-unsaid in the moments just after he _remembered_.

If holy water was all there was, then Sam would have his holy water.

In defiance of his size, Sam could slip quick and quiet when it counted. It was all about balance and the right burst of strength, well-timed. He gave himself a second to check his surroundings. The air smelled normal, offering no warnings through either a whiff of a demon's sulfur or the blend of leaves and ink that carried in Gabriel's wake. Sam held his breath and let his eyes fall shut so he could listen. The trees barely whispered against themselves. The birds soaring overhead were quiet. There hadn't been a crack or crush of impact since the unearthly screaming.

He took a steadying breath, eyed his path, and then ran. Half-crouched so he could drop quickly behind one of the cars if needed, Sam moved with springing, easy steps. He kept checking the road, all awareness focused on perceiving signs of danger.

He crossed three blocks this way, cautious and tense. And then slid into a thin alleyway to check his progress. The church steeple was almost directly overhead. He calculated two or three more blocks to go. A rapid heartbeat accompanied the deep draughts of his breathing. _Where are they? _The silence had become deafening, and the longer it stretched, the tighter the muscles in Sam's shoulders became. At some point, there would be breaking.

The cold bricks of the building scraped Sam's cheek as he edged to the end of the alley for a look. The grinding of gravel under his shoes bounced loudly through the space around him, and he winced. Nothing to the left. Nothing to the right.

Sam coiled himself. _I am a leaf on the wind_.

And everything went terribly wrong.

Something cold and hard snapped across his chest, knocking him backward. Arms, or things like them, clamped on from behind, crushing his ribs. His breath rushed out, killing any possibility of a shout. He jerked, pressed his arms out against the bonds. In panic, struggled wildly, kicked out, and was lifted off the concrete. A jet black point, a daggerlike talon arched high into the air. Sam's eyes shot wide. And then it stabbed, driving the sharp point into his shoulder. Sam bucked and tried to writhe away from the pain. It burned like acid crawling through his body, and he finally found the breath to cry out, a raw ripping sound.

A desperate thrash, and he fell, landing heavily on the hard ground. His head cracked on the stone with a violence that made him see stars. The arms and carapacelike needles fled, or he thought they did. All Sam could see was the sidewalk in front of his eyes, growing darker. Strange sickness churned his belly. Hot flashes swept up his arms and down his legs, leaving him at once feverish and chilled. And his limbs were heavy, so heavy. Sam pushed weakly against the ground, but he couldn't so much as roll himself over.

He concentrated on drawing air in, out. Then blackness.

Dimly, Sam became aware of hands on his body, gently rolling him onto his back. A low-pitched voice shouted something unintelligible, like Charlie Brown's teacher, and Sam scowled. Pain lanced up his back, and he grunted as he tried to move.

The fuzzy voice resolved into Castiel's. "Dean!" he called. And Sam was sure this was a repeat from before.

Sam blinked and managed to focus on Cas's hovering face. Man, his eyes were blue. Really, really blue. Pretty blue. Ocean blue.

"Sam?" the angel asked.

A groan and a blink was all he could manage as a reply. The world slowly started to settle and put its pieces back together.

"Can you sit up?" Castiel's voice was soft as he slid an arm beneath Sam's shoulders and adjusted him into a sitting position. _Too fast, ohhh, God, too fast_. Sam grunted and fought the urge to be sick. Stupid angel.

Running steps pounded down the pavement toward them. Had to be Dean. Sam turned to face him too quickly, wavered, and gripped Cas's arm to find his balance.

"Sammy?" Dean asked with that worried voice Sam really couldn't stand.

Sam blinked a bit drunkenly and forced a slight grin, swallowing back bile. "Hey."

Clearly it wasn't as convincing as he'd hoped, because Dean exchanged a look with Cas, and then Castiel was lifting Sam to his feet—could've lifted him _off_ his feet if he'd wanted to, which was weird in someone shorter than you are. Sam tottered, woozy, and by degrees loosened his vise grip on Cas's arm as the seconds in which he didn't fall over mounted and his stomach settled.

Dean was staring at Castiel hard. Not angry just . . . communicating something in the small gestures and fleeting language of emotion they shared. He swallowed and looked back at Sam. "What happened?"

Good question. Sam started to shake the fogginess from his head and stopped abruptly, before he knocked himself on his ass. Dean and Cas both shot a hand out to steady him.

"I, uh. I was trying to get to the church for some holy water. I- I checked the road. And, I dunno. Something attacked me."

Castiel's eyes widened to alarming saucers. "Did you see it?"

Sam frowned at the note of fear. "No . . . it came from behind. It . . ." He remembered the distinct shape of the talon and clutched quickly at his left shoulder, trying to see.

"It what?" Dean demanded, moving closer.

Sam tore his eyes up to meet his brother's. "It stabbed me, with . . . with something."

He tried to find the spot, but Dean smacked his clumsy fingers out of the way. With a huff, Sam submitted to the inspection, looking over at Castiel instead of watching his brother's all too worried face. Dean found the slice in the hazmat suit and ripped it a little wider. Same with Sam's shirt underneath. Angry red blood screamed against the white fabric. And then Dean slowed, his violence giving way to a tender assessment. He touched at the edge of the wound, and Sam flinched. Dean glanced up to read the expression on Sam's face, trying to see just how much that'd hurt. Sam did his best to counsel the hitch of his breathing and his pained grimace.

"It's a puncture wound, all right," Dean grumbled, backing off. "But pretty small. Didn't hit anything major." Still, he scowled and turned reluctantly to Cas.

Castiel looked calmly back, and with a slight lift of his head offered an open invitation to whatever it was Dean hesitated to say.

Dean licked his lower lip, pressed his eyes shut, and breathed out brittle words. "Is he sick?" he asked, and then looked at Sam.

_Oh. Oh, God_. Sam's stomach dropped, and he felt his hands go cold. He hadn't—_thought _to . . . Cas stepped right up next to him, and he didn't move. Couldn't move, because all he could do was quiver slightly at the possibility. All those people . . . They shouldn't have come here, he'd _said_ they shouldn't have come to this God damned town. But Dean _never_ listened, so fucking _righteous_— Sam cut off his tirade, burying it under his fear. Terrified, he found his eyes drawn to Castiel, trying to read his fate in the creases of the celestial's brow. Cas's gaze passed quickly over Sam's face and traveled down. He looked disconcertingly impersonal. Castiel squinted and leaned in closer, his eyes raking back and forth in echo of Gabriel's earlier examination of Sam's diseased soul.

"Cas," Dean uttered the name with fear and hope.

Sam felt the angel's gaze separating his fibers and digging for the seeds. Slowly, Castiel straightened and looked at Dean. "I don't think so," he intoned.

Dean's eyebrows hitched, and Sam frowned.

"You don't _think_ so?" Dean repeated, flicking looks between them.

"I . . . can't be sure." Castiel frowned and glanced at Sam. "I don't think he's been infected. There's so much . . . darkness," he said the word with a wince, "that I can't make out one taint from another." He avoided glancing at Sam a second time.

Dean sighed long and deep and paced himself in a circle.

"I'm sorry," Cas said softly, toward his lover's back.

It was difficult to decide how to react to that. You might not have a deadly virus, but it's hard to tell because you're so fucked up to begin with. Sam couldn't even be angry at him, because Cas was kind of letting him off lightly, all things considered. Hell, _everyone _was letting him off lightly, end of the world and all. Some things were worth punishment, getting yelled at for and beat to shit for, and maybe that was the shoe he kept expecting to drop.

Sam watched his brother for a moment, then turned his attention the angel's way. He felt a burn in his gut and a strange jelly-looseness in his legs. The world seemed to tip. Maybe he had a concussion? He should have Dean do a check, he thought. That would be good. That would be smart. The words came out differently. "Cas, where's Gabriel?"

Cas's gaze didn't move from Dean's agitated pacing. "Chasing Asag. He followed him out of town and into a plane beyond, but he lost him." He looked at Sam. "He is still searching."

Dean stopped suddenly and jabbed a finger in Castiel's direction. "Well you tell him to look harder. We're gonna kill that demon sonuvabitch. There is _not _gonna be another town like this!"

The angel gave Sam an uncertain look before he replied. "Dean, this was . . . extremely dangerous, you coming here. I should never have let you. You are _both _lucky to be alive."

"Are you saying we let this go? Hope Gabriel can deal with it? He's a nice guy, Cas, and he kicks some major ass. But no way, man. This is _my _planet. And now?" Dean motioned in Sam's direction, weariness and the combined horrors of the day alighting into a bitter fury. "Now, this is personal. I am not—"

"Dean . . ."

"No!"

"Dean!" Cas swept in close until Dean had no choice but to look him in the eye. And then they were caught in one of those long soul gazes of theirs, all tension and passion, until Dean relented, sagged, and brushed a weary hand over his face.

Cas stepped back, making space. He wasn't always as oblivious about Dean's personal space as he liked to make out. Sam couldn't help but smirk a little at the way Cas handled his brother. Castiel caught the expression and returned a subtle, small grin of his own.

"We need a plan," Cas declared. Which given the sophistication of what he called "a plan" was pretty sorry commentary.

Dean rested his clenched fists against his hips for a moment, and let his anger pour out onto the ground with impatience. When he'd recovered, he glanced up at his angel, a quiet, affectionate smile settling on his face.

"I suppose you have one to share with the class?"

A slight smile back. "I do."

Then Dean nodded his agreement and huffed a little laugh. When Cas held out his hand, Dean took it like they were high school sweethearts. Then with a touch to Sam's arm, Castiel loosed a bit of power and sent them shivering on angel wings to a destination of his choosing.

XXX

Turned out the destination wasn't that far, and not nearly as extravagant as one of Gabriel's.

Sam and Dean slowly angled themselves toward Castiel, sweeping their eyes around the interior of the house they'd fluttered into.

"And this is . . ." Dean began, still holding Cas's hand.

"The home of Erik and Angela Talbot," the angel replied calmly.

"Who are?"

"Dead at Hanover General."

Dean nodded, like that was a normal thing to say. "Which, I guess, means—"

"This place is empty," Sam cut in. His words fell hollow on the freshly vacuumed carpet.

Castiel swung his eyes toward Dean, and Dean offered a half-hearted grin of support. Cas could've picked anywhere. He chose some place they wouldn't have to clear dead bodies out of first. A guy could do worse. He squeezed on Cas's hand and then glanced at Sam, who was still looking a little off.

Dean grimaced at his brother. "Sit down before you fall down."

Sam's shoulders squared, and he spun carefully in Dean's direction, like he was standing on ice. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit."

"Dean—"

"Sit!" Dean glared through Sam's huff and turned his back on Sam's Bitchface For Advice He Didn't Want to Hear. He heard the couch squish under his brother's bulk, smirked, and tugged Cas toward the kitchen.

From the sofa he heard, "Where're you—"

"Makin' dinner," Dean called back. He felt his brother's face scrunch up. Moral Indignation Sourpuss #4.

"Dean, that's—"

"They ain't using it, Sammy."And since they weren't, somebody damn well should.

A few steps and then they were in the kitchen, out of sight from the living room sofa. With a sigh and heavy adjustment of his shoulders, Dean let Castiel's hand drop and turned to contemplate him. The angel returned an expectant look but said nothing. Waited while anger and fear and worry flicked in small movements across Dean's face. So much reflected through so little. He looked at Cas with something like pleading, something like determination, then something like regret. And eventually finding nothing to say, opened the fridge instead. As he catalogued the contents, he heard Cas step away toward the dining room and part of him clenched, knowing that Cas was gonna disappear like he'd been doing lately. Then he heard him return, and exhaled in relief.

The Talbots must've just gone shopping, Dean thought idly. Full gallon of milk. Dozen eggs. He shoved aside some peppers and broccoli and felt his eyes go wide. If stomachs could applaud, his would have. Maybe hopped up and done a little hula. Instead, a stupid, silly smile plastered itself on his face, and he lifted his find out of the fridge like he was thieving Mayan gold.

"Ohh . . ." he purred with a little laugh, deeply pleased, and faced Cas. Who had taken off his coat and was looking amused and shockingly adorable standing in the middle of a suburban kitchen with his arms hanging at his sides like he didn't know they were attached. Transfixed, Dean's smile only deepened, and he forgot what it was he was doing.

Castiel's gaze moved questioningly down toward Dean's hands,and Dean nearly jolted when his wits came back, looking down himself.

"You have meat," Cas observed.

Dean convulsed with a laugh and gave his angel a chiding, loving look. "Steaks." He separated the two plastic-wrapped trays and held them up for inspection. "Two inch-thick, prime cut, Angus rib eyes," he announced proudly.

Castiel adopted a mildly impressed look, which didn't quite reach his eyes. Dean just shook his head, turned, and tossed the steaks on the counter. "Tonight, we eat like kings."

Unlike Sam, who couldn't boil frickin water, Cas was a surprisingly efficient sous-chef, doubly so given that he didn't generally care to eat. If Dean called for salt, he got salt. If he asked for a _tablespoon_ of salt, he got a tablespoon of salt poured right in his hand. Probably down to the grain. When Dean needed a pot or a knife, it was on hand, and not once did he have to stop short to keep from body-checking Castiel into a counter.

Together they'd managed to improvise a cheesy broccoli thing that Dean figured Sam would eat 'cause it was "healthy" and some boxed mashed potatoes with cheese and garlic 'cause that shit was good and Dean didn't care what anyone thought, lumps were a bug and _not _a feature. And then the steaks, which oh no no, you did not just _broil_. Just plain like that. _These_ steaks were wrapped in bacon, "'Cause everything is better with bacon," Dean had insisted. Castiel applied himself to the task like an Egyptian priest.

Before long, everything was done and smelling insanely delicious.

For the first time since they'd entered the kitchen, Dean and Cas's bodies collided, albeit gently. Castiel peered over Dean's shoulder at the resting steaks with an air of dubious judgment.

"What?" Dean glanced over at him.

"That cannot be good for you."

He looked serious unto grim, and Dean could help but chuckle, a lightness filling his spirit like sometimes only a good meal could.

"C'mon Cas, sin a little," he laughed, smiling, wriggling suggestively. And then stopped dead of a chill as he felt Castiel tense.

_Fuck._

The angel retreated, and Dean spun, heart dropping, dreadful and cold.

"Cas . . ." He could be so stupid sometimes, so thoughtless.

But Castiel's mind was elsewhere, on bright lights and dark blood and _sin_, and he kept melting backward out of the room. He was gonna leave. Dean's heart pounded painfully as panic sliced cold down his body.

He did the only thing he could do. Before Cas could get much further, before he remembered he could fly, Dean caught him by the arm. "Cas, I'm sorry, I-I didn't mean it like that. You know I didn't."

There were moods in which you didn't so much as _touch_ Castiel, much less grab. They'd been finding that out the hard way, crashing against each other in the dark. Sometimes after a bad night, Dean had those moods too, so he knew, but shit, he couldn't just let him vanish.

Castiel's gaze froze on Dean's hand wrapped around his arm. And the only movement from either of them was a slight tremor Cas couldn't control.

"I'm sorry," Dean said again, and slowly loosened his grip. His pulse pounded in his ears.

In a show of rising control, Castiel didn't jerk his arm back. Just let it fall and offered his companion a raw look of pain before that, too, slipped safely away.

Uneasily, they stared. It was a dumb comment, and they both knew it, but it wasn't like Cas tried to have flashbacks. Resentment made it worse for them both, so they stared to avoid it. And then Dean forced a sarcastic grin and small laugh.

"Y'know, your boyfriend can be kinda an asshole," he said frankly, looking away and then chancing a glance back.

Castiel was rubbing his arm where Dean'd grabbed him like it hurt. He noticed his own action and stopped. After a moment of considering silence, "He makes up for it."

Dean's eyebrow of biting sarcasm leapt to attention. "Oh, yeah?" He fought against smiling. "Must be one hell of a lay."

Cas's gaze slid sideways, and he looked away, not quite able to hide the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Dean waited a moment longer and then turned to finish up, kicking himself and trying not to curse inside so loudly that Cas might hear him. As he grabbed the full plates, one for him, one for Sam, he felt Cas's hand on his shoulder. Then warm breath and a kiss on the back of his neck. His eyes fell shut, and he sighed out the tension aching in his back.

Dean carried dinner to the living room to find Sam at the tail end of turning the couch into a sofa bed. He stopped, hovering like a lost waiter, because that kinda ruined the whole eating at the coffee table concept.

Sam tossed a pillow at the head of the fold out bed and then glanced at him. "They had a daughter," he announced, and looked pointedly at the stairs to the second floor. Realities neither of them quite wanted to talk about moved like dancing ghosts between them. Sam put on a fictitious, wry look instead and manufactured a derisive laugh. "And dude, I am not sleeping in a room that pink."

Sam came around the sofa bed and took one of the plates that was growing heavy in Dean's hand. Dean let his brother pass and followed him to the little dining table in the partial room between the kitchen and living room. Cas watched from the doorway, wary of proximity to others. He returned Dean's grin with a small one of his own. He'd be okay, just needed a little time.

"Did it have ponies?" Dean asked his brother, sitting.

"Hearts," Sam deadpanned.

Dean tsked. "Lame."

"Yeah."

Sam looked down at his plate, and for second Dean thought he might refuse to eat what for them counted as a damn feast. Instead, his brother chuckled—a genuine laugh.

"What?" Dean scowled and sat up straighter, peering over.

"Nothing." Sam said innocently enough, smiling until his dimples showed. He picked up a knife and fork. "Martha."


	5. Chapter 5

Sam stood in the Talbots' back yard, staring into a darkness that was profound in its silence.

The power to the town had been cut, plunging the world back a hundred years. No sodium lights flooded the horizon with their orange glow. No porch lights mirrored the starry sky. Moon and starlight cast everything into mixed shadows of dark and darker, so Sam could make out the trees nearby and the house next door but not much else. He had driven through a lot of empty places and slept under big sky country, but this was a different kind of empty. Abandoned, white bread family homes must be haunting, he mused, because of their negative space—lonesome because of their want of being filled. Hollowness could do that sort of thing.

It really _was_ quiet.

Sam sucked in a breath, and it took him a few moments to realize what was actually missing: the animals. Crickets, birds, dogs, cats. Even untouched wilderness, already devoid of human life, was full of the hoots and cries of life being lived. It is never as silent as this. The sound of nothingness almost made Sam's ears ache and it transformed into a tone all its own. He craned his neck around to look at the house, currently lit using angel mojo. The light in the second story window had gone off since he'd last looked. Dean and Castiel had settled in, then. He hoped they had a good night.

Sam hugged himself a little closer. He should've been sleeping, too. He'd tried, but Castiel's idea of a plan had some pretty big what-ifs. And all of them ended the same way—a moderately quick and decidedly painful death. The problem with Asag was the damn aura.

Cas said he could protect them from it for a time. He had worked out a series of symbols—tattoos, really—that could absorb the power. He could paint them on Sam and Dean's bodies, he'd said. They would burn off as they were exposed, and Cas would have to wing them all out of harm's way before the timer was up. It was like wearing your own fuse. Sam grimaced again at the thought, but it was the best the angel could do. Even _he_ wasn't immune to the aura's effects and would eventually succumb.

Castiel had spent the rest of the night flitting off to God knows where to gather ingredients for his holy henna.

Dean had found Erik's stash of Busty Babes discs on the first try, but after a few minutes he'd shut the TV off with a disgruntled sigh. _Like watching your parents' porn_. And then decided to see what else the Talbots might have had that they would no longer be needing. Sam had left his brother to his grave robbing and tried instead to sleep.

Now, awake despite his best efforts, Sam shifted uneasily. His skin felt alien, crawling and itching. He wanted to scratch all over, shake his limbs out, bounce and shiver or stand under water set to scalding. He didn't _know_. But lying in the Talbots' living room hadn't been helping, and the walls'd started to feel too close for comfort. He had the urge to bolt, run. Seek, maybe?

Sam sighed out and kicked at the ground. He breathed in the scent of ink.

And while the silence was just as heavy, the space beside him no longer echoed in agonizing silence.

"You shouldn't be here."

Sam gasped quietly, unexpectedly, as the voice touched him. And it _did_ touch him, like it never had before. Brushed like soft fur over his arms and face. Gooseflesh rippled across his body in a sudden chill. An internal lens turned, and the vague sensation he'd been fighting with came into sudden, sharp focus.

Sam turned to the sound of Gabriel's voice, and his world went dizzy.

A quick uncoiling from the floor of his belly shot out shards of heat. Blood rushed to his head, and he flushed. Rushed to his groin, and he was hard, _Jesus_, that fast. So fast it _hurt_ and left him panting as much in surprise as desire. He blinked, because Gabriel had said something.

"What?" Sam managed to say, fighting against a flood in his veins. Heavy, bubbling, intoxicating emotion had him swaying. Need gathered a hurricane against his senses.

" . . . is tainted and should be cleansed."

The archangel was speaking words, but all Sam could see were his lips, moving. Lips meant for kissing and tasting. His imagination saw them wet and wrapped around his cock, and he made a small sound. Sam's eyes traced the plane of Gabriel's jaw and the cut of his chest under that tight shirt.

His blood pounded, and his heart raced. Spiky, red, need, _pulsed_. Scorched away doubt and decorum.

_Taste him—drinktouchbeatdrive. Fuck, Jesus_. . . Sam edged closer, shaking delirious with this burn.

Gabriel turned to look at him, and Sam nearly fell into his eyes, drawn to their darkness. Drugged beyond the border of thinking, he felt, followed, and gave himself over to baser passions that seemed to know exactly what they wanted.

Sam slipped into the archangel's space like he belonged there and put a hand on his chest. So simple. So _good_. He caressed hard muscle in a widening circle, honeyed blood leaping at the electricity of contact.

In a flash of unexpected violence, Gabriel snatched Sam's wrist in one hand and held it away, forcing space between them. "What are you doing?" he asked, voice hard, eyes narrowed.

Startled, Sam glanced at his trapped hand and back. His body screamed for more. The inside of his skin throbbed, and even the place where Gabriel's harsh hand gripped was a delicious relief. _Doing?_ He licked his lower lip and leaned in, pressing a kiss to Gabriel's mouth. New flavor burst across his tongue. Always the angel had tasted of air and earth, purity of being. Now, it was blackberry wine. Sam laved at Gabriel's lips begging with his tongue for entry, and there he tasted tangy copper, igniting a ravenous craving.

The angel jerked back, just out of reach. "I didn't come here for that." He sounded angry, masculine and growling in a way that Sam's fevered mind perceived as a challenge to be conquered. They were still so close that Sam could feel his breath on his face, almost feel his body heat. And _yesyesheat. _Heat and copper. Words were words and thought and thinking and he wanted, begged please, _touching_.

"I need you," Sam muttered words that might bring victory, and tried for another kiss.

Gabriel leaned away and held Sam's wrist out farther, twisting him. "Are you all right?" he said, irritatingly calm, gaze roving up and down.

"I'm fine." He couldn't feel his feet.

"I don't believe you."

And that cut sharply through the fog. Anger flaring to equal passion, Sam recoiled back a step and tugged against Gabriel's hold. It was iron, and he struggled pointlessly. Sam's voice was bitter crystal. "I've been getting that a lot lately." _Well fuck him, and fuck Dean!_ Assaulted by emotion, Sam yanked hard on his arm and then glared, chest rising and falling quickly.

But angels are nothing if not patient. And Gabriel just kept looking at him like he expected some miraculous transformation. At first, Sam met his gaze with defiant anger, childish petulance. But the angel kept looking, and Sam's body felt the quality of it shift from cold assault to intimate invasion. His heart stuttered in lust, and the momentary clarity that his anger provided folded under. He moved back into the gap between them, drawn inexplicably, pushed as though a hand pressed against his back. The angel's look of scrutiny softened to concern. Wary, Gabriel lowered Sam's imprisoned hand back down and placed it on his chest.

Sam stared at the point of contact, feeling the heat rush from his palm to his straining dick with an intensity that opened his throat to a moan. He flexed his fingers. Watched carefully as Gabriel kept his hand right where it was, not yet letting him have his way. The archangel's eyes traced Sam's face with that same cautious concern that had him lightly stroking the thin skin of Sam's hand and wrist, sending unbearable _want _straight to his core.

It took Sam's addled mind a moment to realize what Gabriel was doing. He was trying to _understand_ the strange human creature twining in need before him. And that opened a pathway.

Fighting the urge pounding in his blood, Sam licked his lower lip and let his gaze fall.

"We saw the hospital earlier," he whispered unsteadily. "People were stacked. Sprawled." He looked up and into Gabriel's dark gaze. "Kids." Sam let the word out with barely breath behind it.

The angel pressed his eyes shut, and Sam felt his chest rise and fall with a sigh.

"Everything's dead," Sam added and drew in a little closer, like maybe he was seeking protection.

"I know," Gabriel whispered back, and opened his eyes, full of sadness.

_So close._ A small whimper of frustration cracked in Sam's throat, and his whole body blazed with the urge to lick and suck and _feel_, and these words just, just---

"It's not fair," he ground out, and grabbed the back of Gabriel's neck in a harsh, quick motion, pulling him closer.

"You're angry," the angel observed, taking in Sam's rapid breathing, strange, unpredictable emotions.

"Damn right I'm angry," Sam growled, inching closer to Gabriel's lips. It might even have been true. He didn't care. Not about that or the dark, bleakly resolute narrowing of Gabriel's eyes that marked a decision. What mattered was that Gabriel let his hand go and pressed forward into him.

_Yes!_ _God, yes._ That he surrendered.

The archangel's jacket sloughed to the grass. And Sam would have ripped his shirt off him if any power of Earth could have done so. He pulled them both toward a slope in the lawn, sucking hard on Gabriel's pouty lower lip. Still uncannily sweet, metallic. He had the urge to bite and then broke away before he could do so. Sam shoved against Gabriel's chest, but a wall would no more crumble from the blow than the archangel be sprawled by a lack of balance.

"Sit," Sam said, hoarse, language nearly lost to the beast inside. And when Gabriel sat, Sam pulled the rest of his clothes from him, groaning at the sight of so much luscious flesh. He flung off everything he was wearing and fell to his knees. The angel summoned his wings while they kissed, Sam forcing Gabriel's head against the grass as he delved. Winter sweet wine, bloody mead, so close to power. _Not enough_. He crushed in until Gabriel protested. Panting, separating. Sam clapped a hand against Gabriel's thigh to urge him over, and compliant, the angel rolled.

Sam's hands gripped to bruising. Things like care, caution, and teasing lay outside. He wanted in, _sheathed_, fuck, and drove straight for what he wanted._ "Sam!" _in alarm, but inconsequential to his goal. Each stroke almost but not quite deep enough to satisfy.

Skin slapped together obscenely in the dark, each of Gabriel's cries marking him a victim. Dirt gathered under his nails, though he was wrought too much of steel to break.

Hot, fuck, _wrenching_, Sam came hard, shuddering and not knowing if his partner had come.

Not caring.

The red sharp need inside cracked apart, dissolving as he emptied himself. In its absence, an unnatural lethargy, a thick haze that left him ignorant of the cold, of the world.

Cloying, he sank his weight down, uncareful if he was too heavy on the body beneath him, unable to string together a coherent thought. In leaden drowsiness, Sam dozed.

He awoke to the sound of labored breathing.

The first instinct that shocked Sam's heart into action had him scrambling to lift himself off so he wouldn't crush his partner. He couldn't-- Was he outside? Vague, ghostly memories and his own nakedness suggested what he'd been doing. And then he saw that the body was Gabriel, large wings trembling-spread and gray under the moonlight. Reason argued that there was no way he could've hurt him. And yet . . .

The angel's shoulders gathered with tension, and he heaved for air.

"Gabriel?" Sam said tentatively and touched the exposed back of his neck.

Gabriel erupted into a plumed fervor, great wings throwing Sam back and flapping with animalistic terror. The wings twitched and fell lifeless to the ground, Gabriel's energy spent in a single outburst.

Sam recovered, panting, and crawled back to his partner's side.

"Hey. It's me, can you hear me?" he said. Dread drew a bony finger down Sam's spine.

The angel sucked long and hard for a breath, wheezing, and then coughed without answering. He shifted his arms weakly, trying to push himself up but failing to find the strength. Sam moved to get himself in a better position.

"Gabriel," he said, more strongly than before. "I'm gonna turn you over. All right? It's okay," he said, stroking one of the wings gently. "It's okay."

It wasn't okay. Sam struggled with the camp-tent origami of Gabriel's wings as he rolled him over, trying to be both quick and careful.

"Gabriel . . ." Sam leaned in close so they were face to face, and the angel's hooded eyes turned his way. The lids lifted and dropped slightly with each audible breath, but he could maintain focus, and Sam took this as a good sign. "Look at me." Sam touched Gabriel's cheek with his fingertips and fought against rising panic to maintain steadiness in his voice. "I need you . . . to put your wings away. Okay? Can you do that?" He didn't mean to sound like he was talking to a child, but perhaps that was the only form his care knew how to take.

The archangel nodded slightly and screwed his face up in concentration. Between blinks, his body dropped from beneath Sam's hand as his back made solid connection with the ground. He pressed one hand against the grass and brought the other to his chest, then his throat, frowning as he drew in a rattling breath.

"Thanks," Sam said, breathless. He moved Gabriel's hand from his throat. "I know." But the angel grasped there again, gasping, and Sam took the angel's hand in both of his when he moved it a second time. "I know. You just . . ." _Oh God, oh God_. "Just wait, okay? Just gimme—"

He set the archangel's hand down before he could notice Sam's own shaking. This was wrong._ Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong_. . .

Sam threw on his clothes, some of them inside out. His hands shook worse, and he clenched them once hard to make them stop. This was not good. This could not ever, ever, be good. When Dean got sick it was pathetic and bad and took days of nursing and bitching to fix. Angels couldn't _get _sick. So if they did get sick, then it had to be epically bad. Like ebola bad. Like . . . Asag's disease bad.

Horror crept on spider's legs over Sam's scalp.

Gabriel kept heaving and gasping like an asthma attack. As Sam turned, he saw him trying to push himself up, strong arms quaking violently with the effort.

"No! Nonono!" Sam slid down onto his knees and caught an arm around Gabriel's back before he fell. "I got it, okay?" He tucked him closer. "I got it. Just relax and try to breathe. All right?" Gabriel took him at his word and slumped, boneless. Sam almost left his heart in the dirt at the feel of him. Fear and worry lodged hot in his throat.

Gabriel was big. Sam's height and almost his weight. If he spent two second thinking about it, Sam might've decided there was no way he'd be able to lift him, much less carry him. But all reasonable thoughts died when Gabriel convulsed in a fit of hacking coughs that ended with a wet and phlegmy gasp. Tears clung to his eyelashes as he fought for air.

Sam moved without thinking. He slung one of Gabriel's arms around his neck, hooked his own arm under the angel's bare legs, and heaved them both up. It wasn't that far to the house. And honest to God, he couldn't feel anything but adrenaline rushing into every muscle anyway. That, and Gabriel's head lolling against his neck, warmer than it should be.

Sam hurried. Hurried across the yard and up the steps of the porch towards the very closed back door. _Shit_. He felt Gabriel's head shift, and the door swung in as they neared. A smile briefly flashed over Sam's face, and then he was squeezing them through into the kitchen, into the living room. He set Gabriel gently on the sofa bed and for the first time really registered that the angel was completely naked. A blush of embarrassment colored Sam's face.

He grabbed a sheet and blanket and tossed them across Gabriel's midsection. His eyes briefly scanned the angel's body. His face was flushed pink with fever. The rest of him looked pale, save a spot on his arm that looked like a bruise. Sam gave it an uneasy frown.

"Dean!" Sam turned, bellowed, and headed for the stairs. He took them in bounding leaps. "Dean!"

"Sam?" Dean flung open the bedroom door as Sam arrived, panting.

"Castiel!" Sam called over his brother's shoulder and into the darkened room. And then he was gone, thundering back down the stairs.

"What the— Sammy!" Dean darted after him, wearing nothing more than boxer briefs and an Evil Dead T-shirt.

Sam was already back at the foot of the bed when his brother caught up with him. Castiel followed a moment later, no tie and dress shirt unbuttoned. He slowed as he entered the living room and stared in horror at his brother's prone form.

"Sam," Dean ventured. "What—"

"It's my fault," Sam said back, his voice disbelieving. Worry creased his features, and his dark eyes ran over Gabriel a hundred times. Each painful breath made him more sure. He watched Castiel step to the bedside and stare down.

Gabriel sucked in a wet breath and hacked, worse than before. He coughed like bones snapping, the force lifting him slightly off the bed. And then he coughed up blood. It colored his lips and flecked across the white pillow by his head. Sam felt a surge of desire and quickly smothered it with sickened horror. As they watched, a spot like spilled ink formed on his cheek. The bruise on his arm reddened.

Sam had seen spots like that before. His insides hollowed out, and he shifted away from the bed.

"Sam?" Dean's tone was harder.

"I'm the vector," he answered and felt the bite of failure in his words.

"The what?"

"The vector! The infection vector!" Sam flung a hand in Gabriel's direction and dug his fingers into his hair, resisting the urge to sob in frustration. He thought he'd found the limit of guilt a person could hold. He'd been wrong.

Dean glanced at the archangel and then Castiel. "I thought he was immune."

Sam stared as Gabriel groaned and shifted on the bed. He looked so human. So vulnerable. So . . . naked.

In a rush, Sam's breath left him, and he hung his head. Lunatic laughter tickled his lips, but he swallowed it down. "No," he said, tonelessly. "Not immune." He shook his head and forced himself to look at his latest victim. "He was protected. By the Legatus, which I—"

"Helpfully removed?" Dean offered, heavy with accusation.

Sam glanced over at him and turned a deep shade of red as he pictured Gabriel's clothes, his _armor_ scattered around the yard. He glanced at Cas, too, but the angel was kneeling at his brother's side and touching his hair.

Dean sauntered closer. "Are you tellin' me that you have an angel STD?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but the mortification kept any sound from coming out. He shrank and hunched helplessly.

"You have got to be fucking _kidding_ me." Dean shook his head and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "And what the _fuck, _Sam?"

Sam winced.

"You're boning _Gabriel? _Seriously?"

"I—"

"He's a _dude_, dude!" Dean's hands flew through the air. "You don't like guys!"

"What do you want me to say!" Sam burst back.

"How the hell should I know? Just . . . what the _fuck!_" Dean got right up his brother's face, forcing Sam to look at him. Sam's terrified gaze kept flicking between Dean and the angel on the bed. "Look man," Dean said, his worry overtaking his shock. He gave his brother a hair's breadth more space. "You know I don't judge, but Jesus Christ, you don't just wake up gay one day."

Sam hugged one of his arms in a little tighter, not sure how to reply. "Isn't that what you did?" he said, because it seemed like an easy answer.

Dean's eyes narrowed at him. "No. And you know that, so quit it."

Suddenly _admitting _you're bi and suddenly becoming bi were different things, blah blah. Sam'd read around on the subject. Sliding scales of sexuality and all that perfectly legitimate theory that didn't seem to make one bit of difference now that they were standing in it.

He flushed a shameful red a second time and had to force out his words. "I don't _know_, Dean. Okay? I don't. We just . . . we just did things, and it felt good, and . . ." By the time he was on the verge of tears, Dean held up his hands to make him stop.

"All right, enough. I don't need the frickin' details." He turned away, shaking his head.

For a moment, the both of them watched Gabriel jerk and groan in pain, Sam lunging automatically at the sharp sound of a cough.

"How did he even know?" Dean asked without looking away. "How would Asag know something like that? _I _didn't know!" Sam flinched.

"Because Sam bears Gabriel's mark," Castiel said quietly, not looking at either of them.

"Excuse me?" Dean stared.

"I _what_?" But now that he'd heard the idea put to words, he could feel that it was true. A shape pressed against his skin, a circumscribed triangle and some symbols he had never seen. And yet he could feel them, wrapping around his being. They had color and texture, and he had the strangest sensation that if he opened his mouth they would somehow make a sound, though he knew no words for their shape. His hand went unconsciously to his chest as he tried to understand how his memory could taste their form.

"It's a symbol of protection," Castiel went on. "Very minor magic. More of a warning than anything."

Dean smirked. "Attention other angels, hands off my bitch?"

"Dean!" Sam barked.

Cas's shoulders lifted slightly, still not looking at anyone but his brother. "More or less."

Gabriel shifted and rolled his head so Castiel was looking him in the eye. Cas had been having many lessons in terror since coming to Earth and taking a vessel. None had quite prepared him for this, for seeing his brother helpless and dying—decaying of a disease that used thaumaturgy to twist itself into his soul. Gabriel, the fire and fury of Heaven, shivering and pale from fever. Castiel was too stunned to think and instead touched the archangel's face, a face that was his and not his.

"_Esiasch_ . . ." Gabriel murmured, his voice paper-thin.

"I am here," Cas answered, and watched with pain in his chest as his brother fought to breathe and make speech.

Gabriel's words came out in their language, the angels' own tongue spoken without mouths to speak. It was all he could manage just to rasp, and Castiel leaned closer into the sound.

_Ialpon_, he heard, and a torrent of other madness that had him shaking his head. He recoiled, shocked and disgusted, but Gabriel had taken hold of the fabric of his shirt and held him near. The whispers filled his head, filled the room. Thief-silent, resonant harmonies slipped into the archangel's voice. He sounded more radiant, more fully himself, and Castiel could feel the reassuring heat of his presence in the essence of the sound. He could not conscience the words, but his brother's true voice had been so sorely missed.

Castiel floated, unthinking, on the sound until a sharp pain erupted on his leg. Knocked from his reverie, he looked and saw Dean writhing on the floor, his foot not far from Castiel's own leg. Sam was curled onto himself, holding his ears, and they were both screaming.

"Stop!" Cas shouted, panicked, and clamped a hand over his brother's mouth. "Gabriel, you _must _stop."

Confused, indignant, the archangel tried to pull away, his lips moving against the inside of Castiel's hand as if to continue.

_No! _Cas pressed his hand harder and sent his thoughts out, mind to mind. _You cannot speak_. _Gabriel, you cannot speak!_

The Winchesters both groaned and started to gather themselves. Cas gave them a glance and then looked back at his brother, whose anger and confusion simmered in the darkness of his eyes. He didn't understand, only knew that a lesser angel was keeping him restrained, and only because it was Castiel was he not doing something about it.

"Sam," Cas said over his shoulder, then looked to watch Sam stagger to his feet. "Show him your hands."

Sam frowned, still shaking. "Wh—" But he held his palms up anyway, displaying smears of bright red blood.

Gabriel's eyes widened at the sight, and his questioning gaze flicked to his brother.

"You are hurting them," Castiel said slowly in confirmation, and he lessened the pressure keeping Gabriel's mouth closed. _You must not speak_, he insisted, his words an echo in the archangel's knowing.

Gabriel nodded, and Castiel uneasily let him go.

Dean rubbed the blood from his hands onto his shirt, trying to cover his body's trembling. "What was he saying?"

After a long look at his brother, Cas pushed himself up and moved toward Dean. There was a grim set to his face.

"Cas?" Dean asked when the angel said nothing.

Castiel glanced back at Gabriel, disturbed at the things he had been told, the request that had been made. It was madness spoken with desperation. Gabriel could feel he was dying, and Castiel had no clue what to do with such information. He met Dean's questing eyes. "He wishes to be scourged," he said quietly and with such dread that Dean moved closer.

The word resonated through Sam's mind, calling up images of spiked whips and bleeding backs. It meant pain, to drive away your . . . sins. As Sam hung his head, a wave of sorrow rose bitterly in his chest. Tears gathered behind his closed eyelids. He sniffed them away and slipped around into the place beside the bed where Castiel had been. Guiltily, unsure if he even had the right, he brushed his fingers through Gabriel's sweat-soaked hair and then took the archangel's hand in his. He _was_ a sin, almost as black and as demonic as they come. Gabriel should be rid of him. They all should, everyone should.

"I wouldn't advise that," Castiel said sharply, and Sam shot him a hurt look. "He is still stronger than you imagine." There was a hard, cold look in his blue eyes, like glacier ice. Cas hadn't _said _anything, not one whisper of accusation, which Sam thought had to be his grace at work. But that look, driving a cold bolt right through Sam's chest, said more than enough.

Sam swallowed, chastised, and shifted his grip so he held Gabriel's forearm instead. He rubbed his fingertips lightly over the back of Gabriel's hand, and it garnered him the angel's unsteady focus and a look he must be misreading as affection. You couldn't do this to someone and have them look at you with affection.

"What does he mean _scourged_," Dean said. Sam could hear him grimacing, even if he wasn't looking.

Castiel heaved a sigh. "He . . . believes that his grace has been corrupted." His voice hardened. "He is wrong." And by the shift in the sound and the look in Gabriel's eye, Cas had turned around pointedly to tell him so.

"And you're sure of that?" Dean went on.

"Asag's disease kills, it doesn't corrupt. Scourging will do him no good."

Gabriel tensed, shooting daggers from his eyes, and Sam gave Dean a look. Dean crossed his arms over his chest, glowering at basically everyone.

"Tell me what it does," he said. And Castiel went into as much details as he believed Dean would understand.

Sam tuned them out. Heart aching, he leaned in close. "I'm so sorry. I didn't— This is my fault," he said into Gabriel's ear, careful not to cross into presumptuous intimacy, not after this, not after _killing_— He should be in a corner somewhere, chained, unfit to live among civilized people. "You should never have gotten mixed up in this. With me. I don't know why you did. I'm so sorry."

At that last, the angel rolled his head away, and Sam couldn't tell if it was agreement or denial. He wasn't sure which he wanted it to be either, but he did Gabriel the courtesy of not asking.

As Dean and Cas discussed the merits of passing an angel's soul through fire, Sam's attention focused on Gabriel's condition: the pale color of his skin, the blossoming sore on his face, his hooded eyes, and difficult breathing. Slowly, Gabriel's face started to twist in pain. His brow knotted, and he pressed his blood-spotted lips together tightly. Sam felt his own heart rate jump as the angel started hyperventilating, snuffing in air through his nostrils too impossibly fast to be breathing. He shuddered, kicked, clenched his hands into fists, and convulsed off the bed in sharp pulses of agony, then collapsed back, sweating. Tears crept out of the corners of his eyes.

"Gabriel!" Sam's voice trembled in alarm, and he took the angel's face in his hands. Gabriel's lips quivered, straining to remain shut. His knuckles were white, and he sucked in as much air as he could. It stuttered in and out.

He hadn't made a sound; Castiel had told him not to.

Sam could've kissed him.

Instead, he brushed his fingers in soothing gestures over the angel's cheeks and forehead and settled back on his heels. The room had gone silent. And Sam turned to see Dean and Cas watching.

"We have to do _something_," Sam said unsteadily. He looked at Cas. "I mean, there has to be something! How do angels heal? Is-is there a spell? Pendant? Amulet? Another archangel? What?"

Castiel frowned in thought. After following orders and receiving revelation for so long, plans of his own making still came slowly. He turned to Dean, who offered silent support.

Sam adjusted so he held Gabriel's arm again. He could still feel tremors in the angel's body, and it made him sick.

Suddenly, Cas whirled and stared his brother in the eyes. They exchanged something beyond mortal hearing. Whatever it was, it left Cas looking angry. "I will not."

Gabriel shifted in agitation and dropped a fist against the bed sheets. Haughty authority shone in his glare, but Castiel returned it with bright defiance.

"No."

The archangel's gaze shifted to Sam and back, and Sam got the distinct impression that he was the center of an argument he couldn't hear.

"What?" He looked at Castiel.

"Nothing."

Gabriel jerked, and Sam pressed him back down onto the bed.

"I don't think it's nothing," Sam ground out.

The angel's look softened, and he instinctively glanced at Dean, who was cataloguing everything with an eagle's eye. Then back to Gabriel. "It won't be necessary."

"What's he saying, Cas." Indignation flared in Sam's chest. Castiel looked between them and said nothing. Sam made to rise, ready to argue if necessary even though that was stupid but Gabriel hooked a finger into his shirt sleeve.

After an awkward and tense silence, Cas turned to Dean, and Dean lifted his eyebrows in reply.

"I think I have an idea," Castiel said, although for such good news he didn't seem happy about it.

"We're all ears."

Castiel hesitated, searching for a way to begin. Then, "In your mythology, you call it the Fountain of Youth—"

"Whoa, the Fountain of Youth is _real_?" Dean cut in, still maintaining his adorable ability to be shocked by, well, _anything_.

Cas grinned indulgently. "Yes and no. It is the last pool of primordial water from which all life was formed. If anything would be strong enough to flush out the disease, it would have to be that."

"But you're not sure?" Dean hedged.

Castiel averted his eyes. "It's difficult to be sure of much anymore." He glanced up when Dean's hand rubbed across his shoulders and tried to appear reassured.

"So what are we waiting for?" Sam got to his feet.

Castiel gave him a troubled look. "Angels can't fly there. Even if I knew where it—" He stopped abruptly and focused on his brother. Cas's lips twitched into a slight grin. "Even though I _know_ where it is, I can't bring you there."

"Why not?" Dean this time.

Cas slanted a look over. "Didn't your father have places he wouldn't let you go?"

"Sure, but, what's so dangerous about a pool?"

"It's the _source_ of life, Dean. The power of creation."

"He didn't trust you with it," Sam said softly.

Dean snorted a humorless laugh. "Psh. Given the bang-up job they've done with the Apocalypse, can you blame him?" The only acknowledgment he gave to possibly offending the more powerful half of the room was the courtesy of not looking at them while he said it.

Sam crossed his arms thoughtfully and regarded Cas with narrowed eyes. "What about humans?"

"Humans," the angel replied, "can't make use of the magic. There was no reason to keep them out." They weren't worth being afraid of was loudly implied. Cas gave Dean a look that said they'd just evened up.

Dean couldn't help but smirk. He let his arms drop to his sides. "So 'zat mean you can send us? We pop in, grab a cup of water, you haul us back out?"

The angel slumped, and Dean waited to hear the catch. "The water cannot leave the cave. You would have to bring Gabriel to _it_."

"Fine." Sam turned towards the bed and started to gather one of the sheets around Gabriel like a toga. "Send me."

"Sam," Dean said in warning.

Sam dropped what he was doing and spun around. Emotion sprung quickly to his eyes. "_I_ did this, Dean. _Me._ You have no idea what he—" Sam cut himself off and gathered his composure. "I did it. And I'm gonna fix it." He went back to swaddling Gabriel in the thin cloth.

Dean stared hard but couldn't decide exactly why he thought this was a terrible idea, except that sending Sam off to do anything by himself seemed like a terrible idea. He broke a frickin' _arch__angel _for christsakes. "We'll both go."

Sam let out an exasperated sigh. "We _can't_ both go." He straightened and looked his brother in the eye.

Dean made a face and then wiped his expression clean with a swipe of his hand. "Big ass demon," he muttered, coming back around to the realization that they had two catastrophes on their hands. "Our battle plan was iffy when _both _of us were going." He shook his head and studied the floor. "This is really gonna suck."

Sam looked down at Gabriel and then up at Dean, an idea bright as lightning flashing through his brain. "Use his armor," he said.

Dean looked up, squinted, and pointed at Gabriel. "_His _armor."

"Sure, why not? You wear his shirt, Cas can wear his jacket. I mean, that's what it does, right? Protect him from demonic forces?" Sam looked to Castiel for confirmation. The angel looked, frankly, astonished.

"Cas?" Dean prodded.

"I . . . It should work," the angel responded carefully.

"But?"

Castiel turned to Dean and slid up close and conspiratorial. "It's _Gabriel's_," he whispered harshly, scandalized.

Dean placed a hand on Cas's cheek. He looked extra cute when he was looking scandalized. "In this case, I don't think he'll mind." But Castiel didn't seem convinced. Dean gave him a gentle pat before turning his attention to the archangel. He thought for a moment, and a pleased little smile touched his lips. He gave Cas a wink and then moved toward the sofa bed.

"Hey, Gabriel?" Dean asked, sitting on the side opposite Sam. He offered his brother a pacifying look. "Hey." Dean touched the archangel's shoulder timidly, barely making contact 'cause he was still basically naked and apparently basically Sam's, which might take a little getting used to from his straight as an arrow little brother. Gabriel's head rolled his way, and Dean grinned at him. "Hey, so, you remember that really badass sword of yours?" Dean smiled and without really meaning to poured on a little extra charm. "Any chance I could borrow that? Cause I would _really_ like to kick this demon's ass, but rock salt and holy water ain't gonna cut it."

Gabriel slowly blinked back him, looking for all the world like he hadn't understood a word, and then he stretched out his right arm with effort, hand falling haphazardly against Dean's bare knees. Dean scooted out of the way, aware and trying not to be affected. The archangel's breath wheezed, and his eyes fell shut, but the sword coalesced into being in his hand, flaming onto the bed with a blue righteousness that Dean couldn't help but compare to Cas's eyes. Blue, he decided, was the color of Heaven. Gabriel sagged and blinked drunkenly at Dean.

Dean nudged Gabriel's fingers aside as he took the sword's pommel in his hand. He shook it at him for emphasis, making sure their gazes met. "I _promise_ I will give this back to you."

The archangel returned a wan smile as Sam gathered him into his arms.

"Sam," Castiel said in a voice of genuine concern. "I don't know what you're going to find. I've never been where you're going."

"Doesn't matter."

The angel opened his mouth like he was going to say more, but he didn't. He came close to tenderly touching his brother's face, and Sam didn't have to be a Cas-expert to see the fierce love there. Then Cas tapped two fingers against Sam's forehead, tossing him from warp to weft, shuttling him across time to the fading sound of Dean's voice.


	6. Chapter 6

It was only after standing in the same spot and staring up at a jungled, rocky, incline that a deep disquiet settled in Sam's soul. The weight of Gabriel's body in his arms, the press of the angel's head against his neck, even the folds of the sheets draping around his fingers conspired to impress upon him the realization that - This. Was. Ludicrous. Sam tilted his head back to peer up the slope, feeling his insides squirm as the grade bent upward into the sky and out of sight.

"Gabriel?" he asked quietly, because although their surroundings appeared to be just another rain forest, nothing stirred the reverent silence.

A shifting against his neck was the mode of reply as the angel lifted his head and peered at him. Sam jostled Gabriel's weight.

"I climb the mountain right?" Sam whispered. With effort, Gabriel nodded, still sucking in air with labored heaves. Sam glanced up and then at his companion. "I'll know it when I see it?"

A slow grin stretched across the angel's blood-darkened lips, and he let himself fall limply against Sam's shoulder, chest rising and falling like noisy furnace bellows.

Right. Up the mountain. Only mountaineering wasn't one of Sam's natural talents, and if he'd had any intelligence at all, he'd have brought _something _in the way of gear with him, like a good little Boy Scout.

He hiked Gabriel higher, blew out a breath, and started walking.

Trouble found them in the form of a slight tremor in Sam's arms as he went. He ignored it at first, forging over exposed roots and uneven rocks. Moss and grass grew up around the mulch that covered the forest floor, making the ground alternately soft, slippery, and sharply angled. Sam took each step with caution out of infuriating necessity. Holding Gabriel the way he was, he couldn't _see_, and because he couldn't see, he had to feel around before setting down his full weight. They weren't fifty yards from where Castiel had dropped them before Sam was dripping with sweat and his arms aching with exertion. He kept gripping and ungripping his fingers trying to maintain hold, and readjusting his burden.

Gabriel was slipping anyway.

Panting, Sam sank down, settling his charge as gently as he could between the buttress roots of a _ceiba_. Bright indignation burned at his skull. He couldn't _possibly_ have failed already.

Gabriel stirred, sucking in a breath that sounded shot with stringy phlegm. He opened his eyes, though they were hooded and glassy, and blinked slowly. For a second, Sam felt Gabriel's gaze focus on him, and then it was torn away by the rush of short, short, breathing. The angel's eyes scrunched shut, and he pressed his lips together into a white, defiant line.

Sam watched helplessly as Gabriel arched in pain, his fists striking deep into the dirt and his skin going waxen and pale from the effort it took to restrain a scream. He convulsed, curled, and finally collapsed back against the roots, scrabbling for air. The sore on his cheek cracked and bubbled red, releasing a pinkish ooze, and more purple bruises ruptured into being, flowing across his skin as though an artist were inking an unfinished work. He shivered with agony, eventually blinking tears from his eyes. Sam just about screamed for him, and hauled him forward into a fierce hug. Sam clenched his jaw shut so hard it ached, emotions whipping through fury to care and back.

He settled Gabriel back against the roots of the tree with light touches to his forehead and unmarred cheek. The angel lifted his face toward the contact and briefly smiled. Sam swallowed hard.

If he was getting up this mountain, and he _was_ getting up this mountain, they were going to need a new plan. Sam eyed the sheet he'd wrapped Gabriel in. It wasn't that he wasn't strong enough. It was that the burden was unbalanced. Simple physics really. And physiology. And Stanford didn't let just _any _dumbass in to take classes.

Necessity being the mother of invention and all that, Sam grabbed his knife out of his pocket. He unwound and disentangled the sheet, and started making his cuts. Gabriel watched with interested, but hazy eyes.

"Trust me," Sam said to him, offering a small smile, "this is gonna work."

He came at Gabriel with one thin strip of fabric dangling from his hand. The angel frowned slightly, but made no attempt to struggle when Sam started folding his arms over his chest. Sam sheepishly met his curious gaze.

"If you could hold on, that'd be one thing. But you can't," he said, and started wrapping one of Gabriel's wrists. He made a tight knot to hold the strip on and then settled Gabriel's hand against the inside of his forearm, up against the elbow. Gabriel's eyes flicked down to his crossed arms and back up at Sam. "So I'm gonna tie them in place, okay?" He looped the other end of the strip around the angel's elbow and tied that off with a knot as well, his big fingers surprisingly deft.

Sam studied the archangel's face for a reply. It took a few seconds and a few querulous looks before Gabriel realized he was being asked a question and nodded vaguely. Sam gave his companion's clammy hand a squeeze before binding it to his arm. Tied to himself, he looked shockingly mundane, eminently diminished. Or maybe that was the sunken eyes and deathly dark circles beneath them.

The angel started to cough with a crisp, wet, painful sound that cracked open the seal of his lips. Sam gripped him quickly by the shoulders as he doubled over, and had to look away as a string of blood flung across his bare legs and dripped tentatively from his gasping mouth. The sound of Gabriel's struggle _made _Sam look, though. And he cleaned the blood off with his shirt sleeve as he ran his fingers soothingly through the angel's hair.

"It's okay," he murmured a few times. Gabriel just blinked back and smirked. "What do you say we give this a try?" Sam asked softly.

At that, the angel leaned forward under his own power.

It was the best Sam could come up with on short notice and not exactly ideal for either of them. He hauled Gabriel, naked, onto his back and looped the angel's bound arms over his head. He fit, so that was a good sign. Step one accomplished. Step two was possibly more _important_, but about a million times more mortifying. Not that that mattered. Because Sam could _feel _Gabriel's chest rattling, and it was making his hands numb.

Crouched onto all fours, Sam took a large swath of cloth and wrapped it around the both of them, pulling it tight around Gabriel's backside to form a sling. He knotted the ends tightly across his stomach and then searched for the angel's knees. When Sam had a firm grip, he pushed himself up to standing, grunting at the weight and awkwardness of giving a grown man a piggyback ride. Gabriel's arms hugged his neck without cutting off his air, and that was as good as it was going to get.

"Okay?" Sam asked, turning slightly. The archangel's head loomed above his left shoulder.

Gabriel's fingers moved against Sam's collarbone. He took that as a yes.

Inelegant would have been a kind description. But it worked. Sam leaned his weight into the hillside and kept his eyes trained on the ground. Gabriel's breathing kept strange time in his ear, but that, too, was a way to track progress. It meant the angel lived, for one. And Sam kept forcing away any thoughts that tried to predict beyond that point. Every time such a lurid imagining came up, his attention narrowed to the piece of ground he was going to step on next.

On his own, he'd have found scaling the steep incline difficult. Now, Sam's body protested in every way it could imagine— an ache in his back, a jittering weakness in his arms and legs. His lungs burned from so many heavy breaths. Small muscles strained with stabbing pain to keep them balanced.

Sam paused and cast a bitchy, unamused look at the path before him. There were large trees with their jutting roots and an array of rocks better described as little boulders blocking the way. Not that there _was _a way, other than forward and up. But he'd have to either circle wide around the trees or go over the rocks to get anywhere. Sam jerked to shift Gabriel's weight and adjusted his grip on the angel's legs.

Walking around the trees would cost him effort without gaining altitude. Honestly, he didn't think he could afford to waste _any _amount of effort. So, he started for the rock-strewn patch of ground.

Delicately, one step. Balance, balance, then another. He lunged quickly for a safe foothold on flat rock and connected. But it left him stretched, wobbling as he tried to keep them upright. Not good, _shit_, not good. Sam could feel himself starting to pitch over and made a desperate step onto a jagged rock to try to straighten. His body moved on its own, and Sam came stumbling through the rock patch too far forward and all kinds of wrong. Giant strides did nothing against his momentum.

Sam's knees crashed into the forest floor, and the world went suddenly dark.

Sam blinked, his chest heaving and body shaking. He'd dropped his hold on Gabriel to catch himself on his hands. But he couldn't see his hands. Sam's heavy breaths took on the sharp edge of panic.

"Gabriel!" Sam lifted his head to look up and around as though it might help.

Gabriel's fingers curled against his skin.

"Can you see?" Sam's voice shook and came out higher than he would've liked, anticipating an answer he wasn't going to like.

Gabriel's fingers curled against his skin, again. Sam felt a cough shake through the angel's frame.

"I can't," Sam told him in the soft tenor of confession. Terror rose like a sea beast in the tide, showering down cold ocean water and flashing whitest teeth. This wasn't happening, this _couldn't _be happening. Sam whole body tensed in panic. "I can't see, why can't I see?" His voice kicked up to shouting. Like this hadn't been hard enough? Now he was _blind_? Of all the fucking impossible—how could anyone?—it wasn't _fair_—

The thought struck like a gong in his core: this was penance. If he'd learned anythinge in life, it was that nothing was ever free. No hunt without bruising, no power without corruption. No love without pain. So maybe . . . maybe this was the cost of finding the Fountain of Youth. Maybe you got what you came for and had to leave something behind.

Maybe this was it.

The end of the hunter road. He'd always wondered how it would go down. If it'd be some stupid mistake on an easy case, and he'd be a victim of irony. Lately, he imagined it would be a demon and hoped for the dramatic, a Hail Mary and a nuclear option so at least he'd take the bastards with him. Fighting, though. Always, he was fighting. Not puttering around, filling mugs with his finger over the rim to gauge their fullness, waiting to hear the fate of the world over the crackle of an old radio.

A chill racked him and was replaced by a rip of indignant anger.

No one had said this was going to cost him his _sight_. No one said he'd be permanently _useless_. What the Hell was he supposed to do about the end of the world if he couldn't cross a room or aim a gun? Sam's teeth ground down, and he pawed at his eyes with one hand. He needed to see. He really, really, needed to _see_. The first true inkling that this could be _permanently_ permanent touched his brain—the difference between knowing and _knowing_—and the animal scream building in him came out as a surprised, choked wail with all the heart notes of desperation, fear, and anger that such a sound could carry.

_No. Nonononono._ He could feel himself slipping down a graceless slide into hysteria and put on the brakes 'cause he couldn't afford that right now. Sam sucked in a breath and sniffed back a swell of confused, angry, dreadful tears. He was _not _going to fall apart. Not yet.

Gabriel's fingers rubbed a small circle on his collarbone, and Sam sniffed again, concentrating on the tender sensation that said so many things to him at once. The burden pressing down on his back resolved again from the abstract into _Gabriel_—friend, lover, waiting, expiring. Sam flushed with guilt and reached a tentative hand back over his shoulder, moving slowly until his fingertips connected with warm skin. He set his hand back against the ground and cleared his throat.

"I, uh, I'm gonna need you to tell me if I'm going the wrong way, okay?" Sam turned toward the angel's face where it rested against his shoulder. He felt Gabriel nod, too slowly and too weakly. A piece of Sam's heart froze and flaked off.

He tried twice to carry on walking. And twice tripped over an obstacle he could not see, hitting the ground hard with all their combined weight. That alone hurt like a son of a bitch, but it wasn't the pain, not really. Collapsed again on the dirt, Sam fought the urge to scream. He clenched his hands into the mulchy ground and shook his head in vigorous despair. He couldn't do this. Not that he didn't want to do it,_ could not_ make this journey this way. Not with Gabriel helpless. Not without his fucking _eyes_.

The pattern of Gabriel's breathing shifted to the punctuated anticipation of pain, and Sam's thoughts stopped. One hand found the angel's forearm hugged across his neck. He reached back with the other, and finding only thigh, held there as well. It was awkward and pathetic support, but all he could do, folded as he was on his knees. Castiel had warned him that the archangel's strength was still more than enough to break fragile human bones, and the thought of being accidentally snapped sat close on the surface of his mind. Gabriel's attack hit, wrenching him into contortions. Sam felt every twist and flinch cut into his heart, but he tried to be steady, be strong. As the last convulsion eased, a small, human sob escaped Gabriel's control as he drew against Sam's neck. He was crying. A second later, Sam realized they both were.

"No," Sam ground out. He wiped at his eyes in annoyance. "No, it's not gonna happen, all right? You hear me?" He shook the angel's bound arms roughly. Gabriel's fingers brushed against his skin with barely perceptible purpose before he lapsed into a constant shiver. _Not gonna happen, not another one. Not _this _one._

Sam lurched forward on all fours and started to crawl. He could only imagine how they looked: one guy in the remnants of a business suit with another guy, naked, tied to his back like an overgrown infant. It was ridiculous. Absolutely fucking _ridiculous_, and the more Sam thought about what he must look like, the hotter his mortification burned. His brain kept tossing out words like "reduced," "child," and "weak." He should've been able to _stand _at least, instead of groveling in the dirt.

He edged forward, feeling his way over a rock in his path, skirting the sharp parts. Pebbles punctured his palms, small thorns scored scratches along his fingers. Sam found himself almost glad he couldn't see, because the throbbing in his hands told him he was probably bleeding.

That wasn't the worst part, though. Pain was ordinary. More than anything, he really _did_ want to stand. Not for the ache in his knees or the slices in his hands, but because this was a _rescue_. He was supposed to sling Gabriel over his shoulder and hurry like he'd never hurried before. Bear him up on strong arms like a man. Plunge him into the Fountain and pull him free, alive and healthy. Because that's what a hero would do. If Dean were here and Cas were here, it's what Dean would do.

Sam pushed at the thought, and it pushed back, clanging against the inside of his skull. It's what Dean would do.

He came to a stop, staring hard at the blackness that was in front of him—that was everywhere. He felt at once the embarrassment of his situation and the sinking disappointment of failing to compare. Gabriel shuddered, whimpering behind closed lips, and Sam automatically touched his arm. It was colder than it should have been.

The archangel was dying. Well and truly _dying_, and suddenly the far lens shifted from poor Sammy looking pathetic and silly and poor Sammy never living up to his brother's shadow to something so internal Sam hadn't known it had a name. It struggled under his sternum, frantic as he clutched Gabriel closer—Gabriel, eternal, who was going to die.

Pride bucked in Sam's chest, screaming, promising misfortune—only what misfortune could be worse than this? What horror more threatening than dying on a mystic mountainside, failing to save someone you love?

Here, it was only them. No one else to judge what Sam did or did not do. No one's commentary existed but his own, and if he ranked _how _he saved Gabriel above _whether_, then death in this strange place was what he deserved. His struggle stopped, and every useless emotion stripped itself from Sam's body. He pushed a hand through the fallen foliage and pressed on, trusting that so long as the ground sloped higher and every single foot he moved was harder than the last, he was going the right way.

If time is the measure of movement in space, then time passed with a new kind of slow. There was no breeze, no shift in temperature, and no sound of life other than those Sam made on his own.

The first thing that broke the monotony had him recoiling.

"Gabriel!" Sam rasped, his voice cracked from disuse.

The angel moved to show his attention.

"What do you see?" Sam reached out, and his hand came into contact with something that felt like a little like Jello. It resisted his touch, and as he traced his hand up and around, it seemed to be everywhere.

Gabriel made no movement other than breathing, and Sam wished desperately that he would at least _try _to speak. Even if it came out all angel-voiced and ear-shattering.

"Nothing?" Sam ventured, and pressed his palm flat. "You don't see _anything_." Cause he sure as hell _felt _something.

Gabriel's fingers curled against Sam's skin in assent.

Sam scowled and crowded closer to the wall asserting itself against his hand. He pressed, and it was like sliding into a pliant body. Strange pressure swamped across his face, cut off his voice, and the world stretched like silly putty.

XXX

He doesn't know this house at all. It looks like a log cabin, but it's well lit, and by the state of the furniture, well used.

The first thing he sees is his brother, sitting in a chair beside a bed filled with, Sam sees now, his own unconscious body. Dean looks young. It's a shocking thought, because he's never really thought Dean looked _old_. He has his elbows resting on his knees, hands together, his head bowed but peering over at the other Sam. And then he looks up toward the doorway, eyes searching, and Sam knows instantly what the difference is. This Dean hasn't been to Hell, and that makes him younger in so many ways. Sam would never have thought he'd call his brother innocent, but that's how he looks—shiny and unbroken.

Dean's gaze sinks toward the floor, and then he pushes himself up and crosses to the bed. His movements are slow as he pulls the thick blankets back, revealing a Sam covered in bandages.

He doesn't remember this. But then, his other self seems to be completely out of it, so that makes sense. He thinks maybe this was when they were in Maine, hunting Frosty the Carnivorous Snowman. Sam moves to the foot of the bed and just watches.

Dean places a hand against his brother's sweaty forehead and grimaces as he tests his temperature with both his palm and the backs of his fingers. He says nothing as he disappears into the bathroom and returns with a stack of bandages and more medical tape.

Sam watches as his brother starts to peel off the dressings, and he wonders at it, because they look pretty new. They haven't bled through.

But Dean is cautious with the Neosporin, pausing every once in awhile to watch his brother's face for signs of a response. He's methodical but uneasy. This is Dean when he frets. And as he starts cleaning a gash in Sam's side that doesn't really need it, he starts to talk.

"I'm sorry, okay?" he says quietly. His fingers touch lightly at the edges of the wound he's sewn up. "I shoulda gone in first. I jus' . . ." He draws a deep breath and sighs it out. He cuts down a piece of gauze to keep his hands busy. "I never thought there might be two of 'em, you know?" He shakes his head. "Dad never would've made that kinda mistake. He'd've done better recon, scoped the place out more." Dean rips off a strip of medical tape and fixes the bandage in place. "He'd've done it right," he says, voice falling to a whisper. For a minute, he works in silence, affixing the dressing, adjusting it, and perhaps using a little more tape than is necessary.

When he looks up, tears cling to his eyelashes, but he sniffs to pull them back. He clears his throat gently. "I'm sorry, all right?" His voice quivers, and the breath he takes goes down with effort. He packs the medical supplies back up and returns them to the bathroom. On his way back, he forces a smile to his lips. "Running low on gauze. I'm gonna see if there's any in the car," he mutters to Sam's unconscious self. "Don't, uh. Don't go anywhere." He means it lightly, but that's not how it comes out. The smile fails.

Sam feels his heart clench into a painful knot in his chest.

He doesn't remember this place because he woke up in the hospital in Millinocket. He'd been so angry that Jillian had died right under their noses. He'd grabbed a gun, ready to take care of the situation himself. He was going, with or without Dean.

He remembers he took lead because he'd wanted first blood.

XXX

The fall back into his body was swift, and the sudden darkness of being blind again disorienting. Sam nearly buckled under the weight and weariness of his own flesh, and he struggled for competency over his limbs. Gabriel's bulk pressing down didn't help much either.

"Did you see that?" he said, shakily, turning to where he knew Gabriel's face to be.

The angel did not move, and Sam's heart beat harder.

"Gabriel!" He clutched at the arms bound around his neck with one hand and gave a shake, dread-filled thoughts piling on each other half-formed.

Sam felt the archangel curl into him then, a great gathering of effort pulling his frame tight in what could have been an embrace. Sam sighed in abject relief and rubbed his unsteady hand up and down Gabriel's forearm. He encountered something rough, and his fingers came away slick and wet. It took a second to recognize the effluvia from an open sore, and Sam had to press his hand back into the dirt to keep from thinking about it.

Having answered Sam's call, Gabriel relaxed again. His breathing drifting to an imperceptible lightness.

"So you didn't see that?" Sam asked again. "Me and Dean?"

This time he understood the lack of reply as denial.

It was just for him, then. Somehow, that made it worse.

Sam lurched into motion over ground that felt different from before. His fingers threaded through small vines, as if he crawled over a patchwork of cargo netting. They were hard against his hands and kneaded the muscles into swelling bruises.

In the distance, something living and dreadful howled. Sam's head jerked up, despite his blindness, and he stopped, straining. They weren't alone.

Seconds ticked by, and he heard only himself, breathing. So he pressed forward.

It came without warning.

Dog snarls and snapping jaws, Sam jerked back. He hid his face, felt it lunge. The loud ripping sound of its bark, the stink of its hot breath. Primal terror flashed through him, heart racing, gasping for air, and he swung wildly in the creature's direction. It growled, Sam wheezed.

Silence.

_Pant. Pant . . ._

Sam shook from adrenaline and lowered both hands to the ground.

"Did you see it?" he asked in quiet urgency. Gabriel made a small sound, but didn't shift his hands. "No?" The angel's fingers moved. "No."

Sam sagged in relief.

But his body was tuned to danger, and cared nothing for what facts his mind knew. The things attacked, and kept attacking. Breaths laden with foulness of meat washed Sam's face. Barks so sharp they hurt pierced his ears. Sudden, swift, terrible, so _close_. Every time, Sam recoiled instinctively to protect himself, crying out. Every time, left shaking and exhausted, panting into the darkness. They were phantoms, but that failed to matter, and he could have sobbed in frustration, at the power of his reflexive fear.

It was a new level of misery, and it felt nothing like progress. Only the land still sloped upwards, so he followed. He was almost happy when another wall blocked his path and eagerly let it swallow him into a vision.

XXX

Windom, Minnesota. More precisely, Adam Milligan's house. Sam can hear voices in the living room and he drifts, as one does in dreams, from the kitchen towards the sound. Dean is propping himself up on the arm of a chair, a look of resentment slowly deepening on his tired face. Adam is staring at Sam's other self. It's a ghoul, Sam knows now. But he didn't then. He thought it was a new brother, a new ally.

That's imprecise. He thought it was a new recruit.

The look in his eyes isn't warm when he turns them on Adam. It isn't about missing all those years with someone they should have known, sorrow at a lost family bond. It's something else. And the first thing Sam thinks when he looks at himself is that he looks angry.

"Being a hunter isn't a job, Adam. It's life. You're pre-med, you've got a girlfriend, friends? Not anymore, you don't. If you're really gonna do this, you can't have those kinds of connections. Ever. They're weaknesses. You'll just put those people in danger, get them killed. It's the price we pay. You cut 'em out and you don't look back. There's only one thing we can count on. Family."

He nearly shouts it at this boy, this innocent boy, who he knows will see it as a dare, a challenge. Because he _wants_ him to join them. Sam can see in the fire of his own eyes, what he'd longed for was the chance to make someone else as he had been made. To pass along the family legacy. Make someone suffer as he had suffered. Lose what he had lost, and call it _good_.

He could teach Adam to be smart and merciless. He could fashion him into someone powerful. He could teach him to kill.

Beyond his other self, he can see Dean watching and withdrawing in slight horror. Sam remembers thinking he was being brutally honest in what he'd said. Now, he thinks, just brutal. And Dean saw it, too. Saw _how much_ Sam wanted to tear Adam's innocence away and call it a necessary evil. The dawning disgust Dean's hazel-green eyes shifts into an appalled look, and eventually he turns away.

Maybe one of the things you learn in Hell is how to recognize a demon when you see one.

Wet watercolors wash away the Milligan's house, and for a moment Sam feels the creep of cold and the sensation of falling. After a gasp, his eyes blink open, revealing a different dark house—a different innocent boy. Cole Griffith is squirreled away in his room, hiding because he doesn't want to die for good. Who can blame him? Sam watches himself coming down the hallway, looking thoughtful—no, looking calculating. The other him stops outside of Cole's door just long enough to shrug into his hoodie a little more and adopt a look of abiding sympathy.

It looks so false from this vantage point, at the moment of slipping the mask on. It _was _false. But watching himself craft the lies is different than being in them, when it feels necessary, even if it doesn't ever feel right.

He follows himself into Cole's room and watches an Oscar-worthy performance roll right on out. He's gotten good. Maybe it was ever always thus, but he doesn't think so. It was a long, slow descent, with so many hills and valleys, he never really noticed arriving at the sea. Until he watches himself tell a frightened boy that he won't have to leave his grieving mother, not if he just tells the truth. And the boy believes him.

They got the job done.

Dad, he thinks, would be proud.

XXX

Coming back to himself was easier the second time. Sam didn't almost faceplant into the strange terrain. Nor did he bother asking Gabriel if he had been witness to the vision. He just touched the angel's face and breathed easier when he got a physical reply.

He forgot the pain in his hands and knees, the aches in his back, because all he could see was himself from the visions, merciless. Denial boiled like lead in his stomach. He wanted to scream to the mountain that it was wrong. Somehow, the truth was being twisted so it no longer resembled his memory. But yet, every word was as he recalled, and the only difference was that of perspective.

The protests gathered in Sam's throat and stayed there, melting into tears of confused emotion that he hid away.

The land sloped upward under his hands, and he followed. It became a bed of pine.

Sharp points impaled his skin, and if he'd ever doubted that this journey was meant as a punishment, he couldn't anymore. This was agony. With each padding movement forward, he hissed, trying not to flinch as the needles bit in and burned.

Gabriel made a low sound, his chest vibrating against Sam's back, and he moved the fingers of one hand against Sam's collarbone.

Sam shook to a fearful halt, saying the angel's name. It was from the sound of his own voice that he realized he was sobbing.

XXX

Sam wonders if Scrooge ever felt relieved when a spirit showed up. He thinks he prayed for this vision to arrive—to have crawled far enough to reach it. He wonders vaguely if Gabriel heard him, if he had, in fact, been praying and not just muttering like a broken record in his mind. And then he wonders if the archangel could hear _that_, too. He's never asked about mind reading, and Gabriel's hardly a paragon of self-control at the moment.

The vision, when it takes shape, isn't what he expects.

His stomach growls loud enough that he can hear it, which stopped being funny like ten minutes ago, and Sammy looks up to peer over at his brother, who's staring at the ancient stove in the old bungalow like he can't _believe_ anyone expects him to work under these conditions. Dean's small arms cross over his chest. And then he looks over to see Sammy watching and smiles.

Sam remembers this. He can feel the rough texture of the wood of the table under his young hands while still watching his smaller self fidgeting and kicking his feet under the chair with impatience. It's not quite synesthesia, but the clash of sensation and cognitive dissonance makes his stomach quiver with nausea. He blinks, he thinks, only nothing goes dark, and the scene of his memory unrolls.

Dean pulls the oven door open and stabs at something inside with a fork. His face tightens in concentration, and then he draws a hot dog out, dangling precariously on the tines. He sets it carefully on a plate and brings everything to the borrowed table of the borrowed house. It doesn't even matter where they are, 'cause they aren't staying long. Home's not a place, anyway. Sammy knows that. His shoulders lift in excitement—dinner!—and then he stares down at the food in front of him. His expression falls from a hopeful smile to a perfect scowl of petulance.

Dean has gone back to the kitchen, so he doesn't see it at first, but Sammy holds the expression with extra effort. Dean returns with two glasses of red liquid, setting one down by Sammy's plate, the other on the table in front of himself. He blinks innocently at his little brother's glare.

"What?" Dean says, sliding onto his chair.

Sammy glances at his dinner, and Sam can feel the disappointment and revulsion that he felt back then, too. "Creamed corn?" his little voice says. "Dean, I _hate _creamed corn!" He sounds bratty, even to himself.

Young Dean regards his little brother seriously. "Sorry, dude. It's what we've got."

Aside from creamed corn, there's a hot dog and an unwrapped Kit-Kat bar. "I'm not eating it."

Dean sighs, and Sam can tell by the dulling of his eyes that it's not so much exasperation as apology. "Sammy, you have to eat it, okay? So, you can grow up to be big and strong like Dad. It's good for you."

"It's gross!"

Dean's hands wrap around the glass in front of him. "Cherry soda," they used to call it. Part of a game, where Dean pretended things were better than they were, and Sammy went along with it to make him happy. It was just water with some red food coloring, but if you tried hard enough, it could taste like cherries. Dean discovered he could steal sugar packets from just about any fast food joint without so much as a second glance, so sometimes the cherry soda was sweet. He'd tried mixing in stolen packets of jam once. Both brothers agreed to file the results away as unmentionable.

Sam stares at the reddish glasses. It's been so long, he'd almost forgotten.

"I'll make you a deal," Young Dean says, looking over at his brother. Sammy's eyes narrow skeptically. "Eat that, and I'll tell you how Wolverine kicked Sabertooth's butt."

_Oh, God_. Sam really _does_ remember this night. He remembers how excited he was to hear the story, and how animated Dean was in telling it, making all of it up on the fly, most likely. Back then, it was the greatest story _ever_.

"And Cyclops," Sammy adds.

Dean smirks. "Easy. Anyone can kick Cyclops's butt."

"Noooo!" Sam's younger self howls, and he sees Dean grin wickedly.

"Okay, okay. Wolverine and _Cyclops_ can beat him up together. All right?"

Sammy settles and nods, like he's just struck the best pact in the world. Reluctantly, he starts in on the creamed corn. Sam can remember his resentment, how much he really hated every damn mouthful. And for a moment he's stuck in that memory, suffering it all over again, feeling his young self gag and persevere. But this strange double vision has him floating, like he's in the room somewhere else. And his attention falls on Dean, who takes a sip of red water.

Dean's eyes are trained on the plate of food. He follows Sammy's fork, plate to mouth, plate to mouth. Sam remembers his brother was watching him like a hawk, making sure he didn't try to break their deal. _As if!_ But then he notices a thin line of a frown crease his brother's young forehead. And then Dean's jaw drops a little, and his young green eyes look _hungry_. It lasts a second maybe, before he swallows and then takes a big drink of water. Sam stares at him and goes cold, because from over here, he's looking at two kids sitting at a table: one of them eating, one of them not.

Dean doesn't have a plate.

Sam's memory is all annoyance and disgust and how much he hates creamed corn and thinking that his life _sucks_ and that Dean should make Spaghetti-O's instead.

But Dean doesn't have a plate. And when Sammy snaps off a piece of Kit-Kat and offers it to him, he looks both pleased and humbled, but says no anyway. Sammy never once asks why his brother isn't eating anything. He doesn't _notice_. Sam watches Dean watch him eat the candy bar and realizes that Dean probably stole it for him, just to make up for the creamed corn and hot dog.

He never noticed. He'd remembered that night a bunch of times over the past twenty years, and never, not once, did he _notice_. It was a cold bolt right between the eyes, a chilly snake in his stomach. Because if he hadn't noticed that one night, then how many nights hadn't he noticed either? How often had Dean given him the last of what was left and just done without, not because anyone made him, but because he thought it was the right thing. _Oh, God, Dean . . ._

Sam's vision darkens, and his selves go their separate ways.

XXX

The vision knocked clean the dusty shelves in Sam's mind, and suddenly he was flipping through picture books of his childhood, past birthdays, Christmases. Somewhere, there had to be a record of Dean getting his fair share. Sam couldn't believe otherwise, even if his heart thudded with apprehension.

Worse than being emotionally manipulated is knowing that you're being manipulated and falling for it anyway. It felt in some way gullible. Sam's reasonable mind said that he knew these things already. Or most of them. That he couldn't possibly fit any more guilt inside without it cracking open his bones and drilling out his marrow.

And yet. The only image his lost eyes could see was Dean trying _so hard_ not to complain.

He got it, okay? Bad Sam. Uncaring, stupid, blind, ungrateful Sam, who broke his brother and broke the world and broke _everyone_. So what _was_ this beyond exquisite torture?

Anger and frustration whipped a whirlwind through his hurting body, and he had to stop. He _had_ to stop. He searched the ground around him with frantic hands, trying to map the landscape, scattering leaves and soft things he couldn't see. If he could put everything down for a second, for just a _second_ lay Gabriel's burdensome weight aside and not have to hold them both. It was suddenly the sweetest, most welcome thought he'd ever had. Just unbind them both, and he'd be _free_.

He came up on his knees, straightening for what felt like the first time in ages so that Gabriel's arms tugged against his neck. It was strangling, stunting, _claustrophobic_, and Sam's instinctual response was to thrash and elbow him off. Free, oh God, he wanted to be _free_. With scrabbling hands he fought with the knotted sheet at his waist, fighting harder and faster in spiking frustration.

The angel pressed his face down against Sam's shoulder and curled his fingers against Sam's skin.

"Stop that!" Sam roared and struggled in darkness against the bonds that held him. "Will you stop! I can't—just _talk _to me!" He yelled, then clenched his teeth and squeezed every muscle, wringing anger and frustration into tears that slipped from his eyes.

The fit left him shuddering and gasping and exactly where he had been.

"Why can't you just talk to me?" he said in a small voice and held onto one of Gabriel's arms at his neck, open sore be damned.

Someone so close had never felt so far away. He was nowhere, nowhere in this void, where nothing lived and nothing made a sound, except for himself. And if he was blind and Gabriel was mute, then _FUCK!_

_I don't care if it hurts to hear you!_ He screamed the thought inside his head.

The angel's fingers moved in slow circles, present, but silent, and Sam didn't know whether he should laugh or cry.

XXX

The next time, he welcomes the slip into dreamspace and the sudden ability to see again, even though the images will be cruel. For as long as he's here, he doesn't have to feel the burning of his muscles pushed beyond their capacity and the shake of feebleness that comes before collapse. For a few dizzy moments, his failures are past deeds and not a catastrophe unfolding. This punishment is a respite, and a small part of him is thankful for it.

It's the hotel. Sam uses that word rarely. He'd hoped the upscale scenery would throw Dean off his trail, so he could save the world _that Dean doomed _in private. That Dean had found him anyway and so quickly was just twisting a knife that didn't need any fucking twisting. If he hadn't already been pissed off, having his best efforts at clandestine travel cracked like the encryption was 8-bit would've pushed him over the edge anyway. _He _was stronger. _He _was faster. _He _was smarter. _He _was better. And Dean found him anyway.

Sam drops into the vision and into his own skin. Fresh demon blood courses through his veins and he can _feel _it, every drop. Hot lightning sparks down his arms, and every sense pours in data. Lights, brighter; smells sharper. Power and confidence glow like hot iron in his core. Dean is swinging at him, connecting painfully with his jaw. But this is how weapons are made, and he returns the punch with more strength than he's ever had. He's strong enough for Dean, strong enough for an army, and the black pleasure of it makes him want to laugh.

He sends his brother sprawling into a table, and it's so damn _good _to see him like he should be, rolling weakly on the ground. Dean came back broken; he stayed broken, and now they both know it. Sam falls to his knees and wraps his hands around his brother's throat, squeezing, not to win, but for good measure.

He could kill him. Just keep on squeezing, and he'd never have to live up to anyone's glory blighted shadow ever again.

But it isn't about the kill. It's about the principle, so he shoves off with a sneer, for every time Dean never gave him enough credit, for every time he ended up being _right_.

"You don't know me," he growls, "You never did. And you never will."

Even now, Sam can't tell if he meant it—if he's always been someone Dean has never known or if it's just the blood talking. He turns to leave, pausing only when Dean's voice croaks out words that Sam's heard once too often already.

"You walk out that door, don't you_ ever_ come back," his brother gasps. All he'd heard then was hatred and disgust. The Sam from a couple weeks ago glares wordlessly and leaves, taking the sweet balmy liqueur of his demon blood with him. The loss carves into Sam's consciousness, like his ribs have each been broken and extracted through his skin. Cold and small and unable to move, he is left frozen, staring down at his brother.

Dean watches the empty space of the doorway for a moment. And then he gives up.

Sam can't imagine another way to describe it. Dean doesn't try to get up or run after him. His fight evaporates. Alone, he curls onto his side amid debris, and he cries. It's a delicate thing, and Sam watches with deepening despair as fissures spider through his brother's soul. He doesn't look like anyone's hero, or anyone's older brother.

He looks small, infinitely human, and discarded.

It was never hatred in his voice, after all.

XXX

Darkness and hunger were the universe. Briefly, when the vision ended, Sam'd had the sense of himself on his hands and knees, but it got jumbled with need and a sucking emptiness, and his body collapsed without his permission. The contrast with his other self, his empowered self, told him everything he needed to know about what was wrong. If only he had blood, he'd be strong enough to keep going. If only the void were filled, he'd feel _alive_ and capable.

Gabriel's arms around his neck threatened to choke him, pressing painfully against his Adam's apple, so he shifted. The movement brought his lips against the angel's skin and fragile pulse.

Sam stopped.

His soul howled for power, for blood. He could taste the bitter copper and remember the warm heat as it went down. Every time, it felt so _good_.

His lips parted on their own. Blood rushed through the angel's flesh, so close that in the blackness Sam was sure he could smell it.

So little between him and what he needed.

If a demon's blood was good, maybe an _angel's_ . . . _Oh _. . . Just one taste would be enough. A few drops maybe. He could be good, he could control it. Then he licked a line up the soft inside of Gabriel's wrist, trembling with hunger and struggling for what he craved.

It wasn't until he raked flat teeth over the thin skin and held onto a tiny fold that he realized he'd come up onto his knees and was holding Gabriel's arm in both hands—a vampire ready to feed.

He stopped, stunned. Revulsion made his stomach turn, and panting, he slowly, deliberately pulled the temptation away and held the angel's arms where they should be, to keep them in place, to keep them from traveling to his mouth.

Sam's grip on Gabriel's arms tightened.

A few bites and he'd have been through to a vein. He would have gnawed through human flesh to do it.

Sam felt his whole body go cold at once. Gnawed _through_, savaged like an animal, practically _eaten_ part of Gabriel alive. He'd hoped that knowing it was wrong, admitting it was wrong would be enough. Hunger didn't care for ethics.

For a long moment Sam was stunned to silence, the realization of his depravity unfurling numbness down to his fingertips. Gabriel couldn't have fought him if he'd wanted to. Couldn't have stopped him.

No one was safe with him. Not anyone. Not with a monster.

Sam had never forced himself on anyone, not— But maybe that was wrong. Even through the hazy memories, he could remember Gabriel voicing protests. Maybe he _had_.

And maybe this was just a whole new level, for which _violate _didn't come close to strong enough. _Jesus_ . . . he'd held him to his mouth like a thing.

Sam pressed his eyes shut and focused on the clawing hunger. _Gabriel is not thing_, he told it, snarling. _And you are not me._

Sam didn't know if Gabriel was even aware of how close he'd come to being betrayed, and the coward in him hoped he didn't. The hunger subsided to a low simmer. Sam leaned into his task, palming one of the archangel's legs once, briefly, as a promise. _You are not a thing. I am so sorry._

He crawled forever, over small stones like cut glass, or crawled for merely seconds. Cut free from place, he was cut free from time. Moving forward became a singular purpose of being; if it ended, he ended.

The passage into visions felt like nothing, as though the veil had become too thin to sustain. He crawled and he saw:

Himself in the midst of a fight, lifting his head from the corpse of a demon, red blood smeared across his face like candy—a pleased, sated cannibal.

Himself closing his fist to squeeze the life out of a demon, and his eyes were as black as beetles.

Killing, killing, his heart racing with the joy, almost unable to contain such blissful power.

Lilith, dying.

Himself holding Ruby, once loved, as she is gutted.

Slowly, at first, then in rapid succession, they blink through his mind, faster than he can see, than he can feel. Triumphant murder, power, depravity, dead, _stop_, Dead, _Stop_, DEAD.

"Stop it!" Sam cried out full and cracking into the black. He sat up on his knees, wavering, and brushed fingers too weak to grip into Gabriel's hair to hold him into his shoulder.

"Please." Sam tilted his head back and imagined he looked upward, toward a cave where the Fountain of Youth should be. Quivering lips formed the word a second time. "He's gonna die," he said in an exhale. Hearing it out loud hurt worse than he could have predicted, and a pathetic sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob tumbled out. "Look. Look, I know I'm not the Righteous Man, but please, _please_, don't make him pay. Whatever's in the Fountain, I swear, I don't want it, not for me." He fell into a whisper. "It isn't for me."

Sam turned, clumsy in the dark, and kissed Gabriel's cool cheek. What little control he had over himself faltered at the lack of reply, and as Sam bent their heads together, tears fell from his eyes but ran down the angel's skin. Sam sniffed once, hard, and lifted his face skyward. "Please, don't punish him 'cause I'm not the right guy. I know, I get it. I use people and I'm stupid and I don't think and I don't listen, and it's petty and childish. But Gabriel's not any of those things. He's _good_. Please . . ."

Part of him felt stupid for talking to a void and expecting an answer. But if there was ever a holy place, then this _had_ to be that. And he was out of options anyway.

For the first time, Sam felt the stirring of a breeze. If he hadn't been so keyed on every sound and motion, he might not have even felt it at all. Then suddenly, his knees ached sharply, and Sam dropped to feel the ground beneath him.

Solid stone.

He felt forward, and his fingers came up against a perfectly flat vertical rise—a stair. With a bursting surge, Sam hauled them both up it, seven in total. He tumbled over the top one, and plunged into daylight.

Sam gasped, his hands going automatically to his eyes, and then he blinked at the cave opening before him. Laughter bubbled in his chest, and his hands flew to the bed sheet at his waist, undoing the knot with ease. Gabriel's weight hung strangely off him, and Sam frowned in confusion, despite the smile that stretched across his face. He tugged at the angel's arms and looked at him.

"Gabriel?" Cautiously.

Sam felt slight movement against his shoulders and saw a twitch behind closed eyelids.

Then nothing.

Nothing at all.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean stared at the tips of Castiel's fingers, still hovering awkardly in the air. _Shit._ It had all happened so fast. Gabriel being sick, and then the Fountain of _Youth_ for Christ's sake, then Sam and then _whoosh!_

Now, it was just the two of them and Dean's panic battering around in his chest—his lunge for his brother aborted. Dean's outstretched arm lowered, and he turned his attention from Cas's hand to his face. He'd sent him away. Didn't even ask, just _bang!_ with the angel mojo and Sam _ceased to be_. Castiel had decided and acted without hesitation, and yet lines of stress and worry deepened on his face with each passing second. Like maybe he wasn't sure he should have.

"Cas?" Dean's voice came out shakier and breathier than he would have liked.

Slowly, the angel let his arm fall, and he turned to look at Dean, eyes wide and a little wild—a lot wild, shot through with a screaming, painful blue. His white shirt hung open, looking rumpled on his frame, bed-head-sex-hair acquiring the disorder of mania; what had been casually enticing a moment ago now appeared hauntingly desperate.

_SamSam, SamSam_, _SamSam_, Dean's heart thundered.

So fast.

So fast, so sudden.

Sam and _Gabriel?_ _Gone_. Gone beyond reach. "What did you do?" Dean asked, even though he knew the answer. He knew where his brother was, in theory. But all he had was empty space to stare at and fear ripping down his spine and an angel.

Castiel peered back at him. "Sent them to where Gabriel showed me."

But it wasn't where they _were_ that mattered. Dean's brain finally caught up with the rest of him, which was gearing up for a full on freak out. He tried for a moment to collect himself, even as the fear rushed down his limbs. When he moved, he saw an arc and flash of blue and fire that made him jump.

Right! Shit. Sword.

Purposefully, he set Gabriel's sword against the wall, taking extra time to be slow. This wasn't as bad as he was thinking. It'd be fine. Cas had a plan. Nothing wrong with sending Sam off on his own. Even if he did free the Devil. "And, umm, how're they getting back?" He tried to sound casual, tossing the question over his shoulder as he straightened and turned. Nothing to worry about.

"When Gabriel's healed, he will bring them back."

Which made sense. But . . . Dean frowned and took a measured step closer, looking into Cas's eyes to make sure they were both jolted into connection. But . . . His heart hammered, and his mouth went dry. "But if he doesn't make it?"

There was a moment where Dean could see Castiel considering it. Possible futures rolled out in the angel's imagination. His eyes grew wider, his jaw flexed. And then he looked away. God_ dammit_, Cas looked away and pressed his lips together, saying nothing. _Nothing! _Because there was no plan and he hadn't thought it through and Sam was fucking _alone_ out there. And there was no way, _no way!_

"Cas!"

In a blink, Dean had him by the shirt, hands fisted in the fabric. Anger and fear blended into a single violent emotion, and Dean was suddenly snarling in his lover's face, shaking him. "How does Sam get back!"

The angel's wild expression snapped into singular focus. His eyes narrowed and his whole self lifted and tensed in defiance. He pushed Dean out to arm's length slowly and with insurmountable force. Sam was not the only one on that mountain. "If my brother dies," Cas ground out, a gathering storm brewing in his expression, "then so does yours."

Dean flinched as though struck, and went cold. No. _Nonononono_. He looked searchingly over Castiel's features, because the last time he heard that tone, it had ended with ". . . and I can throw you back in." Fuck it. Fuck _that_. He tightened his grip in Cas's shirt.

"An eye for an eye?" Dean laughed once in bitter sarcasm. "That's your plan? No way man. No dice!" He tried to jerk Castiel closer, intimidate him with his rage, maybe. But Cas lifted his chin and threw Dean off with one shove.

Dean stumbled back and fell heavily onto the sofa bed, his anger ebbing for a second under a crash of surprise at finding himself summarily tossed. When he glanced up, Castiel was staring down at him looking, of all things, terrified. Cas's hand moved and fingers flexed like he wanted to reach out but didn't know if he was allowed. Instead, he drew in on himself and backed away. Dean rose and followed, compelled by the gap of space between them that he could _not_ let grow. There was something here he wasn't understanding. But the quick shifts in emotion were leaving him dizzy and burning and he couldn't take the _time_.

"There's gotta be another way, man," Dean said, changing tacks and edging closer. He gazed into Castiel's eyes long enough to see the terror break. And then Cas bolted. Or tried to. He got a few steps toward the kitchen before Dean caught up with him.

"Cas, look at me." Dean grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. "Look at me!"

The angel did look. And this time so did Dean, long and deep. What he saw wasn't the cold bastard Castiel had been, the one he'd momentarily turned back into. Just below the defiance, peeking through when Cas heaved an unsteady breath, was fear. The same fear and anger and care that had him hauling Cas around by his shirt and screaming in his face.

Dean's shoulders sank as shame crept up his neck and a sympathetic frown creased his forehead. His whole body heaved with emotion, and now that he was paying attention, he saw Castiel's did too, his natural grace giving way to all too human fidgets.

Slowly, because now he meant no harm, Dean raised a hand toward Cas's face, brushed a thumb along his rough jaw and settled his palm around the side of his neck. They gazed at one another, silent but animated with anger, now with sorrow, then with the urge to comfort.

Eventually, Cas's lips parted as he drew a heavy breath to speak. The air wheezed back out, formless, and when he tried a second time, tears pooled in his eyes, though he did not let them fall.

"He is dying," he said, and looked at Dean with a plea.

"I'm sorry," came the rough reply.

"It's Sam's fault." Cas said it without flinching, tossing a dagger at Dean's heart, not out of provocation, but out of truth. They owed each other that much, and he knew Cas was just trying to explain.

It wasn't true, though. It _wasn't_. Even so. Dean took the hit because Castiel believed it, and controlled himself enough not to strike back. "It's Azgrathan's fault," he murmured, and then opened his eyes to meet Cas's gaze. "You know that," he said softly.

The angel looked away, shifting and shrugging faintly.

Dean rubbed his fingers along Cas's skin, despair spiking high. He took a sharp breath and then tugged them both together until their foreheads touched.

"Please," he whispered.

"Dean . . ."

"If it doesn't work, if he doesn't make it, there's gotta be something."

"I don't know. I haven't—" Castiel cut himself off and lifted his head. "There's hasn't been time."

Hope spread golden through Dean's chest, checked only by the despair on Cas's face. They were talking about the death of his brother, after all. A fact easily forgotten when Sam was in danger. Even now. Even when Cas meant so much, there was always that. Always Sam. For a moment, new shame flushed Dean's skin, and he traced his fingers up to Castiel's cheek in the hope that he could distract him from seeing it.

"Hey," Dean muttered and leaned in again until their heads touched. His fingers brushed over rough stubble. "Sammy'll get him there."

Castiel was quiet for a moment. Then, "I would like to believe he is worthy of Gabriel's faith. But—"

Dean stopped him with a finger pressed to his lips. But how could they? After everything, how could _anyone_ believe Sam might do the right thing? Dean didn't even believe it. Not really. Hoped, but that was all. He lifted his head so he could look into Castiel's eyes. He saw doubt there in almost equal measure to his own.

"He will," he said, because it was what they both needed to hear.

Cas merely nodded. When Dean took his finger away, the angel added, "I will try to think of something," with such grave seriousness that Dean could only grin. Castiel then slipped out of the tense, intimate space and glanced around their borrowed house. His eyes alighted on Gabriel's sword, flaming cheerfully against the wall by the entertainment center. He turned, speaking over his shoulder.

"You should get Gabriel's things. We need to start getting ready."

XXX

Human emotions don't unwind as quickly as all that, though. Dean's heart still raced from his anger, and his limbs still felt liquid and alive as he strode out the kitchen door and into the back yard wearing nothing but his black T-shirt and boxer-briefs. He didn't even notice the cold. Sam was gone, and there was no way of knowing how he was doing or if he was coming back, and there weren't words in the world that could make that okay. There weren't words that could change it, either. So he moved through the cold, wet grass searching for Gabriel's clothes in the moonlight like it was the most important thing he'd ever done.

They formed a bit of a trail. First the jacket, then the T-shirt. Dean saw something white gleaming against the dark ground just beyond a little dip in the yard. He kicked the archangel's jeans by accident and quickly added them to the pile in his arms. The gleaming thing turned out to be a pair of tightie-whities, and he didn't even _try_ to keep from laughing at that. Not that Cas and his straight-laced accountant had been any different, but he'd at least been able to fix _that _fashion faux pas.

As he turned to head back toward the house, Dean kicked something hard with his bare foot and cursed loudly. It sounded far more vulgar given the stillness around him. He shifted all the clothes into one arm and bent down, feeling blindly. His fingers glanced upon what he discovered to be one of Gabriel's shoes, and then he spent a good five minutes locked in a search pattern trying to find the other one.

Even if he wasn't particularly mindful of the cold, his body was still feeling it, and by the time he got back into the house he was covered in goose bumps and shivering despite himself.

He found Castiel in the living room, placing the last pillow back on the re-made sofa. The angel turned to the sound of Dean's feet on the hardwood floor and looked over both him and the pile he was carrying. Castiel came closer and without saying a word gripped some of the fabric in his hands. Dean watched him carefully, unsure of what to make of the way Cas rubbed Gabriel's clothes between his fingers. The way he looked at them, so intently, suggested that his angel's eyes saw more than just cotton weave and black leather.

"Cas?" Dean broke the silence with a whisper. "What is it?"

Castiel looked up at him. "May I have these?" he asked delicately, with what Dean thought was unnecessary ceremony. Of course he could have them. And Dean handed the pile over to him. Gabriel's shoes still hung from Dean's fingers, so he set them on the floor near the blazing sword, figuring maybe they could keep each other company.

He watched with interest as Cas set the pile of clothes (_Gabriel's armor_, Dean had to keep reminding himself) onto the sofa, like they were breakable. Then Castiel lifted and folded each piece, setting them in a neat pile on the easy chair. He was acting weird, even for him, Dean decided.

Almost as if he'd heard the thought, Cas turned and pierced Dean with a look that wasn't so much malice as interest. Still, it was hard not to feel his regard like a quick, sharp pain.

"Take off your clothes," Cas said.

Dean stared at him, not sure at first if he was serious. Castiel stared back with a commanding kind of patience, and Dean could only assume that he was. He'd have laughed at anyone else, but if Cas got the brunt of his anger, he also got the brunt of his occasional compliance. Dean stripped off his shirt and shucked his boxers, thinking that now really didn't feel like the time and this was hardly a way to get a guy going. Not that he was one to turn down sex, like _ever_, but this felt off.

Cas gave him only a passing glance and then motioned to the arm of the sofa. "Sit."

Dean blinked at him and moved cautiously to follow his directions. He didn't try to reach out as he maneuvered around him, and Castiel didn't make a pass at him either. Almost insulted, Dean sat on the wide, plush cushion and gazed at his angel, his face alight with questions. Their eyes met briefly, then Castiel turned and disappeared around the corner into the kitchen, leaving Dean alone.

There is something profoundly uncomfortable about being naked in someone else's house. Even more, being naked in their living room. Dean knew they wouldn't be coming back home anytime soon. But he felt so _exposed_ among their things, in this space reserved for public activity. Dean hunched in on himself slightly and moved his hands to cover his groin, as though he'd be defiling their house less that way. He swallowed hard and fought the urge to bow his head in embarrassment.

He glanced up eagerly when Castiel returned, and straightened to try to see what he was holding.

"Wh—" He started to ask a question, but Cas gave him a sharp look of warning. Frowning, Dean pressed his lips together in petulant silence and crossed his arms over his chest.

Eventually, Castiel reached him and lowered himself down onto his knees with a strange, graceful folding of limbs. Soapy water sloshed ever so slightly in the large bowl the angel had been carrying. Dean looked from the bowl to the folded towel draped over Cas's shoulder and lifted an eyebrow. But Castiel wasn't looking.

With slow, deliberate motions, Cas took the cloth from his shoulder and set it on the floor. Then he removed his own shirt, folded it carefully, and set it aside. Everything from the flexing of his fingers to the stretch of his arms seemed somehow different, like each movement had been planned long in advance and repeated a thousand times. Like each movement mattered.

Castiel lifted himself on his knuckles and edged closer, bringing his knees nearer to Dean's feet. His warm fingers wrapped around the back of Dean's left foot and then lifted gently, settling his foot on his thigh.

Dean stared at him. He stared with a growing sense of discomfort as Cas dipped the cloth purposefully into the water, wrung it out, and placed it gently against the thin skin along the top of his foot. He couldn't _conceive_—Castiel was going to wash his _feet?_ That was ludicrous, and nothing an angel should ever have to do. He jerked, but Cas's hand hooked around the top of his knee and held him place with just enough pressure to keep him there without hurting. He didn't look up, as much as Dean wanted him to. Instead, he closed his eyes and stilled his hands and waited for Dean to stop fighting.

With an unsteady breath, Dean relented, though this was wrong, so wrong he felt embarrassed by it and his heart thudded hard in his chest.

He couldn't take his eyes off of Castiel's hands. They dipped the cloth into the water, twisted off the excess with easy precision, and then held his body reverently as his ankle and then calf were cleansed.

Dean had taken plenty of baths in his life and plenty more speedy showers. He'd been sponged by pretty nurses and ugly ones, when he'd been too weak to even lift his own arms. He had never felt anything quite like this.

As he unwound and let the embarrassment fade in the face of wonder, he saw more into each of the angel's motions.

There was, he realized, ritual in this. Castiel was making it so, with his serenity of silence and thoughtful, careful gestures.

The cloth was warm on Dean's skin, rubbing lightly. And then it was gone, only to return a second later with new heat. By the time Cas was up to his knee, he'd stopped using both hands to wring out the cloth and instead kept one in constant contact with Dean's body to preserve this link. His eyes never moved farther than the next area of exposed skin. When he couldn't reach while kneeling, he stood. He moved over Dean's arms, over his chest, damned spots being rubbed out and made clean.

The places Castiel had been touching should have been teasing, lighting a fire in Dean's belly a hundred times over. But they weren't and they didn't, because this was a different kind of love.

When Cas moved the cloth over his cheeks and eyes, Dean lifted his face to meet him. And when the damp fabric touched the back of his neck, he bowed his head to receive it. At some point, their breathing had come into sync. As the angel stood behind him, wringing the cloth into the bowl he had shifted closer, Dean felt the urge to say something. Nothing needed saying, but the silence radiated with more care than he knew quite how to handle. If he could just crack the solemnity, he thought, his heart might stop aching.

But he didn't. A drop of warm water ran down his back, only to be caught in the slow circle of Cas's methodical cleansing, and he couldn't bring himself to step outside the ritual bounds. He let Cas work and felt more and more like hallowed ground. As his arm was lifted, made clean, he wondered if Castiel was leaving symbols of protection across his body like Gabriel had done on Sam. Cas set Dean's arm back down gently at his side. And then Dean thought that maybe it didn't matter if there were sigils in angels' names.

What he felt? The glow that welled up inside, the alien sensation that he was safe and cared for in just this moment—those were magic. Sure as any incantation and deeper than any mark upon the flesh.

Castiel ended just as he had begun, washing the dew and dirt and grass from Dean's foot, as if he was honored to do it.

At long last, he set the cloth and bowl aside and looked up.

Dean didn't know what you said after something like that. He blushed, deeply, and found that any attempts to break the silence they had established galled his senses. Instead, he reached forward, his palms shushing against the rough stubble on Cas's cheeks, and pulled him into a sweet, loving kiss.

"How do you feel?" Castiel asked quietly as they parted.

Dean took a moment to consider his reply, flexing muscles that felt lighter than they had in ages. He felt clean. Young. "Happy," he said finally, with a slight smile.

Cas made a pleased sound and kissed one of Dean's palms before pulling away and levering himself up. "Good. I have to put the wards on you now."

Dean looked astonished and shot a glance at the small stack of Gabriel's clothes. "I thought we had that covered."

"Maybe." Castiel ran his fingers through Dean's hair. "But I'm not willing to risk you."

_It. Not willing to risk it_, Dean thought, but didn't bother to correct him.

Cas padded quickly between the living room and kitchen, switching the warm of soapy water that somehow _stayed_ warm for a bowl of something that looked like drying mud. That was the result of the ingredients Cas had spent a good portion of the night fluttering around to find. Some of it was dirt from holy places, some herbs, some ground bones of saints' relics, a few rare flowers. A couple times Castiel had responded to Dean's queries with silence, so he didn't know what he'd brought back and probably didn't want to. Beside the bowl Castiel set a few paintbrushes in varying sizes and a long knife from the kitchen.

Dean hadn't been expecting the knife. His eyes were drawn to it, though, and unease settled in his stomach. With the same measured calm that he'd displayed during the ritual bath, Cas picked up the knife in his left hand and slashed across the palm of his right.

Dean's whole body tensed. He couldn't help it, and his fingers dug into his bare thighs as he watched the blood drip into the bowl. After a few seconds, the dripping stopped, and he found that he could breathe. Cas opened his hand to reveal perfectly reformed flesh, and much to Dean's horror, he slashed it again.

Somehow, it was harder to watch the second time. By the third, Dean was freaking out just trying to sit still. This was what you did to torture someone—made a wound, let it heal, made it again. Only angels healed quickly so you could _keep_ doing it, as often as you wanted. His stomach started doing flips, and his hands shook from trying to keep himself from tackling Cas on the spot and tearing the knife from his hand. Dean dug his nails into his palms as Cas started going for a tenth slice, and he just couldn't keep watching in silence.

"Jesus, Cas, stop! Just cut a vein why don't you!"

The angel paused and craned around to look at him, curious at the distress is his voice. He blinked at Dean, glanced at his wrist, and then cut down to the bone.

Dean shrieked. Or he did something. He let out some terrified primal howl, grabbed the closest piece of material, even if it was Cas's white shirt, and launched himself across the short space. There wasn't even thinking involved, just instinct and action. He got Castiel's right arm in a grip and hugged it to his chest pressing the shirt against it with all his strength.

"What the fuck is the matter with you!" He bundled the shirt into a harder ball and pressed with both hands.

"Dean—-"

"Shut up." Panting with anger, he looked over. Castiel was watching him like _he _was the one who'd lost his sanity.

"Dean, I'm fine."

"You're not a turkey," Dean shot back, then peered down at the hand and arm he held so tightly. He loosened his grip so he could see how badly it was bleeding.

"Well, no." Cas huffed in the way that Dean had come to read as frustration. "But I _am _fine. And the spell requires my blood." As Dean's grip loosened, he chanced pulling his arm away, not because he couldn't have before, but because he'd rather not have to fling Dean across the room to do it. The attempt, though, only made Dean tighten his hold possessively.

Dean glanced at the bowl and the mingling mud and blood. "It's got enough." He didn't care how much was in there, it was enough.

"The more of my blood there is, the stronger the protection will be."

Dean jerked the bloody shirt hard against Castiel's wrist and glared at him. "It's got enough." Why was this so difficult to understand?

Castiel glared back. His eyes narrowed with a irritated expression. "My wrist is healed, by the way."

"You're welcome," Dean groused and let him go. He sat back, annoyed, and looked pointedly everywhere else in the room but at Cas and the bloody shirt. Eventually he glanced over, just because it was getting awkward. "What?"

"You're covered in blood," came the gentle reply.

Huh. So he was. "Yeah? Well whose fault is that?" Dean got to his feet and headed for the kitchen to find the bowl of soapy water. Turned out there was only the kitchen sink and a dishtowel to be had, but he had special expertise with cleaning off blood. He kept at it until the towel came back clean and then braced his arms against the counter to take a breather, just take a moment. It was too bad, and he couldn't help but feel a lash of shame. He hadn't meant to ruin the bath Cas had given him. He hoped he hadn't, because a thing like that didn't happen too often and it all still felt kind of precious and special, exactly the kind of thing he always broke. _This is why you can't have nice things_. He'd make it up to him—that was a promise.

When he came back into the living room, Cas was mixing the contents of the bowl with the largest brush. He met Dean's gaze and then nodded toward the armrest of the sofa. Dean sat, frowning and anxious. Castiel went back to his mixing.

Fuck. "Am I that much of a jerk?" His words brought Castiel's mixing to a stop. "Did it even occur to you I might not be okay watching you hurt yourself?" He waited while Cas gave him a ponderous look. Clearly, the answer was no. Dean made a bitter sound and shook his head. Damn, but he couldn't help but be disappointed.

"I'm fine," the angel said eventually, earnest in the face of Dean's distress.

"Doesn't matter," Dean replied with a vehemence that made Cas's eyes flash. "It doesn't matter that you can take it. It doesn't matter that you heal. I can't just sit and _watch_, dumbass. And that you thought I could? I—" Words stuck in his throat, and Dean just shook his head.

Something shifted in Castiel's eyes. "I'm sorry."

Dean suspected an angel knew a thing or two about powerlessness and watching, and he relaxed under the thought. "Yeah." It still stung though. His eyes flicked toward the bowl. "Is that ready?"

Castiel looked quickly at the bowl in his hands like he'd forgotten it was there and then hurried to mix the contents a few more times. "As it will ever be," he said in a low, rough voice. He gathered the other brushes in his hand and scooted to the place at Dean's feet. As before, he placed Dean's foot on his thigh gently and then dipped the thickest brush in the paint, carefully scraping the excess on the side rim. "Try not to move." He glanced up and caught Dean's eye; Dean nodded back.

The sensation of the brush against his skin brought an involuntary gasp to Dean's lips. It felt alive, like a tongue circling his ankle. It was wet, yes, but also warm with Castiel's blood in a way he tried not to think about.

Cas, Dean thought, could have been an artist. He looked so natural, so in his element drawing lines and symbols on the canvas Dean provided. Some were letters Dean recognized from Ancient Greek or Sumerian. Some were voodoo symbols. Some looked like the Enochian sigils carved into his bones, and he imagined he'd never know what their forms stood for.

Inexplicably, as the warm paint cooled and dried, sometimes chilling under a whiff of breath, Castiel began to sing. Dean knew his voice when speaking, and he knew it cracked with need and scrabbling for ecstasy. He had never heard Cas raise his voice in a song. It wasn't a "Gloria, Hallelujah," either, but a melodic, rhythmic chant that despite the chaos and high emotion of a few minutes before, veiled the room and their bodies again in peaceful ritual.

Once, Dean had heard, perhaps on TV, that some objects trap within them sound waves present at their making—like liquid glass as it becomes a solid. This was what Castiel must be doing, he figured. The paint would dry, imbued with magic from the angel's chant, preserving both his words and voice, suspending them within its being, frozen in a constant state of casting.

Dean lost himself in the sensation and the sound. The symbols rose up slowly over his body, like ivy. Sometimes, he thought he felt an electric buzz at the lick of a brush tip, but then Cas's breath would wash warm over the area, voice flowing with the steady silver song, and Dean would shiver and forget. Cas paid great attention to Dean's arms and hands, limning a web of thin lines so intricately linked they suggested a second skin.

He wore bracers of bone dust and angel blood.

Peering at the careful designs Cas had wrought made Dean's chest swell with determination and dull tip of a brush tilted his chin up, and for the briefest moment he looked into Castiel's eyes as the angel chanted down at him. He grinned. Cas's eyes crinkled at the corners in response. He could not stop his singing to say something more. The notes bore his heart out anyway, so he didn't have to. Dean let his eyes fall shut, and a warm paintbrush stroked across his cheek. That, above all else, was electrifying.

This, he thought, was what men had felt for millennia—being girded for war. He was a Viking eager for battle and glory, a Cherokee carrying the hope and blessing of his people, a soldier smeared with grease paint who left his kinder self back home. He'd never felt quite so powerful, reassured, immortal, as with Cas's symbols scrawled across his face, and never so honored to lift his hand to violence.

This was the last piece, connecting the trail of tribal marks from one shoulder to the other across Dean's neck and face. There was, hidden among it all, an unbroken line, wrapped like a mobius strip around Dean's limbs. He could almost feel it buried under all the rest, hugging protectively.

A few more points and dots, and Castiel pulled the paintbrush back for the final time. He leaned in close, singing into the marks he had made. Dean blinked his eyes open at the sensation of Cas's breath washing over him, and he watched, transfixed, as strange language fell from his lover's lips. Eventually, the chanting ended, and Cas pulled back with contemplative, deliberate slowness. Dean's eyes followed his hand as he dipped a thumb lightly into the blood paint.

At the trace of the angel's thumb, Dean's lips parted and he took a quick breath. Cas was careful, applying the paint like lipstick to Dean's mouth, and then he leaned in for a kiss.

Dean jolted and cried out at the contact, his whole body lit with a single electric shock. He nearly fell from the sofa and gave Castiel a stunned, somewhat insulted look.

"What the Hell was that?" he asked, lowering the arms that had crossed protectively between them.

Cas gave him a small grin. "The sealing of the ward."

Dean glanced at the painted symbols on his hands and moved to get up, Cas shifting out of his way but watchful. He turned his hands over, admiring the work, and then twisted trying to see the rest of it.

Castiel chuckled softly, and Dean shot him a sharp look. "What?"

Humor and affection shone in the angel's gaze. "You look silly," he said, eyes on Dean's lips.

"Yeah? Well, you're no Picasso."

Cas pressed his lips together and turned away to gather his supplies. "For that you should be thankful."

Dean blinked at him for a second and then huffed a soft laugh. Touche. Really would have sucked if his nose had ended up stuck to his ass when he got topside. If Cas had any plan for what was next, he wasn't saying, so Dean scooped up his clothes and redressed. He sat at the dining room table, where he could see Castiel meticulously cleaning the paintbrushes and bowl of the mud and blood. It seemed like a bit of wasted effort, but what did he know? Maybe Cas just didn't want to leave remnants of his blood sitting around where anyone could find it.

Dean spread his fingers on the table top, staring at the patterns that crossed his skin. He heard the water in the sink stop and Castiel quietly come to take the seat across from him.

"You will feel it first in your hands," the angel said, low and serious. Dean glanced up at him. "As the wards are burned away under Asag's influence, it will travel up your arms and legs." He reached out and took one of Dean's hands, turning it over, his thumb on the palm. His eyes focused on the point of contact, and Dean watched the beginnings of a frown crease his brow and then smooth away. "When you feel it reach your shoulders, you must tell me."

Dean nodded.

Castiel looked up sharply, fierce blue eyes shooting right to the back of Dean's skull. "Dean, you _must._"

"Okay!" he blurted, because he _had _nodded already, but apparently that wasn't enough. Castiel held his gaze for a few more seconds and then relaxed, letting him go. It was kind of unnerving how worried he was acting. Asag wasn't the first demon they'd fought, and he'd hardly be the last. And if this time was like any of the others, they'd be pulling out by the skin of their teeth anyway. He knew what Cas wanted him to say—that if it came down to it, they'd bail rather than risk him being infected with a super virus. Dean flexed his hand, watching the patterns twist. He wasn't sure how to tell him that if he had to stay past his expiration date to get the job done, then that's what he was going to do.

Every time.

When he glanced up, Castiel was giving him this hard, drilling stare, and he thought maybe Cas _did _know after all.

"So," Dean said with a sniff, "I've been thinkin'. We've got the armor. Got a sword. Only thing we don't have now is an enemy." He shifted in his chair and sat back. "The way I figure, there are two possibilities. Either Gabriel kicked the demon's ass so hard he's gonna move on to somewhere else, so we've gotta figure out what looks tasty. Or he's playin' possum in Hanover somewhere, and we need a way to draw him out."

Castiel drew a deep breath and let his eyes rove over the table. He took his time in answering, long enough that Dean was leaning forward with his elbows on the table by the time he spoke. "I don't think he will have moved on. He'll be able to sense Gabriel's"—he hesitated over the word—"absence and know that his plan was successful. I think he'll stay until he has what he came for."

"Corpse chow," Dean muttered darkly.

Castiel gave him a grim look.

Dean pushed out from the table and got up, pacing between the living and dining rooms. He paused as he made his way back toward Cas.

"You said the authorities were already here, right?"

"Yes."

"And they were already picking up bodies, right?"

"Yes. They've been moving them to a mobile processing center on the west side of town."

Dean frowned a little at that. "Processing center?"

"They had a number of very large tents for housing the bodies. Many medical units and computers."

Dean's skin suddenly went cold. "And every cop, firefighter, medic, and FBI agent in the Northeast," he intoned, voice dead. "They're in the middle of an All You Can Eat buffet. Man, if we don't get those people outta there, the demon's gonna have a thousand more bodies on his hands." But get them out how? It was the biggest homeland disaster since 9/11. People weren't just gonna walk away.

"We could move the bodies," Cas offered, with an ease that almost made that sound sane.

Dean blinked at him. "Move them. You mean like angel airlines, blip them all out?" Castiel was decidedly Dean's personal favorite kick-ass angel, but that sounded, you know, _miracle _big.

The fingers of Cas's hand drummed against the dining room table in a gesture so astoundingly human Dean felt the urge to tell him to stop.

"No," Cas said eventually, his voice light, almost giddy. He got up with a surge of energy, crossed to Dean, and hovered just at the edge of his personal space. His face was alight with rare excitement, like when Sam found some stupid translation he'd been after and couldn't keep his geek under control. "Moving each body would be too much all at once or take too long in groups. But, if I moved the _space _instead of the people," he said, a grin working its way into his words, "I believe we could lure Asag anywhere we wanted."

"Moved the space," Dean repeated, because he was sure that was the important part without quite knowing why.

Castiel grinned. "The dirt beneath them and the tents above them. The _space_." He held his hands up like he was holding a ball.

Oh. _Ohhhhhhhh. _Dean turned the thought over. That was actually kind of fucking brilliant, and he flashed Cas a smile that told him so.

"You can do that?"

Cas lowered his hands and nodded. "With the right kind of magic. It would have to be thaumaturgy."

"Right," Dean replied automatically. "Why use anything else but though-ma—"

"Thaumaturgy." Castiel supplied, humor in his voice. "It's symbolic magic. You use a small thing to affect a larger one. Like—" He cut himself off, a flicker of emotion passing over his features. When he spoke again, his voice grated a little more than it had, and he didn't quite meet Dean's gaze. "Like voodoo dolls. It's the same magic Asag used against Gabriel. He infected his vessel to infect his soul."

Dean moved closer, drawn by the strain of pain in Cas's voice. He stopped when he could just feel the heat radiating off the angel's arm, not quite touching but offering his presence.

"So if I understand right," he said, keeping his voice gentle, "you're gonna need a piece of everything you're gonna work this mojo on, yeah?"

Cas nodded. "The ground from beneath the tents and a piece of the tent itself should be enough." He lifted his eyes slightly and frowned a little.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Dean managed not to roll his eyes. "You suck at lying."

Castiel bristled. "I do not suck at—" He pressed his lips together, and Dean could actually see him gathering together little pebbles of patience. He turned to face Dean squarely, and Dean lifted his eyebrows in automatic reply. "This spell will be . . . difficult," Cas said without blinking. "You'll need to be at the destination point to ensure that it's worked."

Dean gave him a narrowed look. Cas may not be the best liar, but half-truths were his specialty. He didn't want Dean anywhere near this house when the magic went down, and that alone was worrying enough that Dean was half-inclined to stay. But the angel's gaze was steady and heated to the point where Dean was starting to feel it in his thighs. He drew back and nodded a little just to squirm out from under it, then started for the stairs.

"I dunno about you, but I'm thinking sleep's kinda out of the question," he said over his shoulder. "Be back in a minute."

And he was, dressed head to foot in some of Erik Talbot's clothes, black jeans and a black hoodie, both a little too big. While he was gone, Castiel had slipped on his dress shirt and buttoned it properly. The rolled sleeves exposed lithe forearms and strong hands, but no more. Dean grinned automatically as Cas watched him approach.

"I was going for urban ninja, what d'you think?" He spread his arms and smiled.

The angel merely grinned fondly and then directed his eyes toward the window in the dining room and out to the night beyond. "We have four hours before sunrise."

"Is that enough time?" Dean asked, following his gaze.

Castiel glanced over. "It will have to be." Then he bent and lifted up a backpack that was resting against his leg. "Here."

With one eyebrow quirked in question, Dean took the pack, surprised at its weight. The contents clanked, and he shot Cas a look. "What's this?"

"Things you will need."

Dean undid the top zipper and peered inside. Garden shears, garden shovel, plastic bags . . . and a kitchen knife. He eyed the knife as he pulled it out.

"In case of . . . complications," Cas provided.

Dean made a small huffing sound and put the knife back. He closed the bag and glanced up to find Cas giving him a confused look. "What?"

"I thought you'd appreciate a weapon."

He smirked. "I do, but . . ." Dean indicated his clothes. "Where am I gonna put it? Plus, we're tryin' to help these people not hurt 'em." He slung the pack onto his back and pulled up the hood. "How oo aye . . ." He tried to speak through a yawn and shook off the effects. "How do I look?"

The angel stepped closer, raking him with gaze. "Tired," he pronounced.

Well, yeah, lack of sleep will do that. Dean grinned, about to make snide remark about Cas's powers of observation, when the angel's fingers tapped him on the forehead. He gasped, shaking once as cold flood flashed across his body, followed by a tingling wave. His heart rate picked up, and suddenly his muscles felt warm and fluid, his mind and senses sharp. He blinked at Cas.

"D-did you just slip me _crank_?" His voice was high and incredulous.

"What?"

"Crank, speed, black beauty, uppers."

The Cas's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "I didn't give you drugs. I gave you rest."

"Yeah?" Dean jogged a little in place, testing out his new-found energy. "Rest, huh? Well _rest_ feels awesome."

At his blazing smile, Castiel could only grin. And then Dean slapped his hands together with exuberance. "All right! Let's get this moving."

Cas lifted his hand, ready to tap Dean on the forehead again. "Please be careful."

"Cas . . ." Dean flung his arms wide in a dramatic show. "I'm always careful!"

And then the angel's fingertips made contact, and Dean for a brief second felt like he was falling.

XXX

If Dean wasn't as badass as he was, it could've been a problem. But he _was _badass and ten flavors of awesome that Cas was going to hear about later, so sneaking into Morgue Central went nice and easy. The authorities had basically taken over the high school and its playing fields, so they could have nice flat land to work on. Castiel had dropped him in the parking lot, and there were plenty of cars to hide behind as he got his bearings. Dean pressed against some huge Canyonaro thing and just listened for a second.

He slowed his breathing so he could hear over the roar it made in his ears. The night was that awful kind of quiet enacted only by dead things. He gave it a few minutes, but no one walked by anywhere within earshot, so he slowly turned and peered up over the hood of the car. Huh. When Cas had said "tents", Dean had pictured something like an outdoor wedding. But wow was he wrong on that. His eyes traveled up and down the striped, bloated bodies of some seriously Ringling Bros. big tops, and for a second he just gawked.

Not that it didn't make sense that you'd need something that big. Just . . . damn. And the circus vibe really wasn't helping.

He watched some pinpoints of light make their way back and forth around the entrance of the closest structure. It was too far to tell if they were armed cops or what, but that just meant he'd have to assume they were and count himself lucky if they weren't. The moon was bright enough that it was casting shadows. If he tried to cross 150 yards of open ground, he'd look like a big moving blob, and if he tried to army crawl the whole way, he'd run out of time.

Dean cast around the rest of the area. The school's parking lot hadn't had nearly enough space, so there were cars, trucks, and emergency vehicles parked everywhere, stretching from the space between the high school's main building off to the right and library off to the left out toward the field. People were parked all around the tents, too. Dean dropped back, glancing all around, and then moved deeper into the parking lot, heading toward the library. The black running shoes he'd found in the closet were a size too small, probably, he thought, chagrined, Angela's. But the business shoes that went with the FBI clothes were crap for anything but looking good, and he wasn't about to wear white. They were the best option he had, and pretty damned soundless on the pavement as he darted behind car after car, one hand trying to shush the contents of his backpack.

As he neared the library, he could see that the sports fields cut off onto a pretty steep embankment down the left-hand side. Dean paused to check the walkway that led from the school to the library one more time and then glanced at the library doors just because. He drew a deep breath and made a low run for the embankment, sliding a little on the wet grass. On instinct, he let himself fall and grappled. His fingers dug hard into the dirt, and he found himself face first and spread eagle on the sloping ground. Not bad. Maybe a little undignified, but whatever.

The hill wasn't as steep as he'd thought, though the dark pit at the bottom was probably a pond that he'd be better off avoiding. Dean hurried along, bent as low as he could to keep himself below the edge of the hill. Before long, he was within range of the ambulances and police cruisers filling the field and could start weaving himself between those instead. For all the vehicles, there weren't that many actual _people _milling around. Dean frowned as he huddled next to a sedan.

That was a little weird, right? All these cars . . . no personnel? Dean peered at the school building and wondered if maybe they were all asleep in the gym or something. He sucked in a slow breath and turned to get a good look at—

A man was sleeping in the passenger's seat.

Dean startled and gasped despite himself but managed not to move. Dude was asleep. Facing totally this way, but his eyes rolled under his eyelids in that REM-state dreaming fashion. Adrenaline washed through Dean's system as he drew back from the car and snuck toward the trunk. He shot a glance at the SUV on his other side and saw a woman's blonde hair plastered against the window. Fuck. Well, screw him for asking questions.

He maneuvered his way into line of sight with the open flap of the tent and waited. Men, by the size of them, paced back and forth. One crossed into the illuminated square of the tent's interior. Cop. Dean could tell by the hat. He stayed slow, flexing the muscles in his legs to keep them from locking up, and waited to see how far his way the guard was going to come. The arc of the guard's flashlight didn't pass within twenty feet of the car Dean was hiding behind, and then the cop turned around and meandered back toward the door.

He wasn't going to get a better chance.

Dean held the pack against his back with one hand and scurried along behind the vehicles until he'd rounded the side of the tent. He made a break for the structure itself, staying as flat against the soft walls as he could manage. The plastic traced at his fingertips as it moved under a slight wind. He edged toward the corner and then peered slowly around the back.

They'd arranged the tents with their entryways facing out. And apparently didn't feel an empty alley was worth guarding. Dean smirked and slipped around the corner, unslinging the bag from his back. He set it down gently to keep the implements from making a racket and set to work. All told, it was the easiest job he'd ever pulled. A few clips from the shears and he had himself a roll of tent material, then a garden shovel full of dirt from just inside the hole he'd just cut . . . easy. And only four more after that.

He tried not to think about the fact that they were filled with bodies. Or wonder just how many could fit inside each big top. Maybe they were on cots, like patients. Maybe on the ground, or maybe stacked—

Dean shook it off and fished his cell phone out of the front pocket of his hoodie.

_Beam me up, Scotty._

_Dean, who is Scotty?_

He was still smirking as the world went wobbly.


	8. Chapter 8

"He's from Star Trek," Dean said as he turned, orienting himself. He seemed to be getting used to the sudden shifts in location, or maybe his turning was just a practical disguise for a primal unease.

Castiel reached out and took the backpack from Dean's hands, watching him as he studied the new state of the Talbots' living room. "Star Trek?" Cas said automatically. It was a bad habit, questioning references he didn't understand. It made Dean sigh and give him a patronizing look. There would always be a distance between them. Castiel frowned in annoyance and averted his attention to the bag instead.

"Someday," Dean was saying, "you and me, we're gonna sit down and watch a whole lot of TV."

Castiel pulled out the bags containing tent fabric and handfuls of dirt. They were as he had asked. He glanced up at Dean, meaning to thank him for completing his task, but found the man grinning fondly back at him. Castiel reran the last thing Dean had said through his mind again, seeking the source of that smile. He spoke of a future neither of them was foolish enough to believe would ever be—a future of rest and folly. But he spoke of it with certainty, which was a kind of hope. Castiel couldn't bring himself to care a whole lot about watching _Star Trek_, but that hope was a lifeblood to them both. He would shelter it with fist and wing if he needed to. And so, he grinned back.

"I'd like that," he said quietly, and Dean's grin blossomed into a smile. It was an exquisite expression that made his soul flash with beauty and warmth. For a few scant seconds, Dean was open, radiant, and Castiel looked into him the way angels do. He wished, not for the first time, that Dean could see more than this surface gazing back at him.

After a moment, Dean broke eye contact. "You'll like Spock," he said absently, and then focused on the room. "What is all this?"

Castiel dropped the backpack to the floor and turned to follow Dean's gaze. He had moved all the furniture in the room to the edges. With paint from the garage, he'd drawn two circumscribed squares on the hardwood floor and written _Hic est _in one and _Hic venit_ in the other. Dean stepped closer to the circles and peered at the writing. He laughed softly.

"What?" Castiel eyed him.

"That's cute," Dean said, glancing over.

Cas shrugged. "It seemed expedient. It's not really the words that matter—"

"It's the intention," Dean finished for him, nodding as though he'd heard it all before.

Castiel nudged him out of the way and started to arrange the spell components, taking care with each one as though it were charged with power already. The spell would be no small thing, even for someone with as much experience as the angel had. He poured dirt from his palm into a small pile within the square and covered it with its piece of fabric.

This spell was on the scale of miracles. Connected to Heaven, hearing the songs of his brothers and sisters, he could perform miracles. Their power and faith could provide what his grace could not, filling him with the energy he lacked. But now . . . he wasn't Gabriel, didn't have an archangel's strength to warp the world all on his own. Now . . . the magic would use him like it used a human, and the meager capacity of his grace was all he had.

"Cas?"

Dean's hand touched his shoulder, and Castiel realized that he'd come to a stop. He poured another small pile of dirt into the sigil and set the roll of tent material in his hand down over top. The heat and pressure from Dean's hand made him feel self-conscious, strangely aware of how his body was shaped, where it was bent, and how it was separated from everything—except for Dean. It kept his focus present, so he continued without shrugging him off.

"You okay?" Dean asked eventually.

Okay? The angel's chest tightened with apprehension, and his fingers brushed around a small pile of dirt pointlessly. "I'm fine," he muttered, not looking up.

Dean's hand vanished, and Cas felt his heart clench ever so slightly. Somehow, it had always bothered him when Dean walked away.

"Whatever." Dean's voice was dead, flat with disappointment and annoyance.

Castiel huffed out a laugh without meaning to and felt Dean tense behind him, defensive. They could fight easily about Dean's understanding and caveats concerning truthfulness. But all that Cas could feel roaring in his emotions were trepidation and loss. No ire.

"Nothing," he said in answer to the silent challenge, rising to his feet and coming to look Dean in the eye. "I'm not going to fight with you right now."

Dean's eyes flashed, and he took a breath to argue _that_, but Castiel simply laid a hand on his sternum, pressing so Dean could feel his strength, and gazed deep. "Not now."

Dean glanced down at Cas's hand and with effort, relented.

"I've chosen a place to draw the demon," Castiel told him, not breaking contact. "A mall parking lot on the north side of town. I need you to go and make sure the spell works."

He could feel Dean's chest heave under his hand, his body vibrate with anxious energy. Dean leaned in closer, searching Cas's gaze with sharp green eyes. Dean knew he was missing something, Cas could tell by the slight pull of a frown in his features.

When he started to speak, Cas cut him off. "Dean. Please."

The frown only deepened, but Dean pulled back with a disgruntled nod. He shifted unhappily, crossing his arms over his chest, and stared at a wall.

With divine patience, Castiel suppressed a sigh. Once, it would be a blessing to have his intentions understood, his cautious efforts appreciated. Maybe while they were watching _Star Trek_, he would try explaining these things. "I'll drop you on the roof of the building. You should have a good vantage point from there."

Dean nodded and refused to look at him. Cas clenched his jaw in annoyance and tapped Dean's temple to send him on his way.

It wasn't that he needed Dean watching so much as he needed him as far away from here as he could get him. If he had explained the extent of the danger, Dean would try to stop him or insist on staying. Castiel would take his love's ire over either option.

With a slow, calming breath, Cas turned to face the circles he had drawn and knelt slowly before them, the thaumaturgical devices at his left hand, the circle yet to be filled on his right.

He took out his cell phone and dialed Dean's number. Dean answered on the first ring, and Cas told him that he would leave the line open so Dean could tell when the spell was complete, or if he had failed. Dean informed him that he wouldn't fail, but there was nothing yet that Castiel _hadn't_ failed in, so he was not inclined to agree. It wasn't worth arguing. In theory, the spell should be easy. Establish the link between symbol and signified, teleport the symbol, and allow the effect to ripple out to the signified. Any moderately practiced witch could perform such manipulations, but it was the scale that gave even an angel pause. He did not part seas or exalt mountains or perform acts written in the annals of history—raising Dean Winchester from the dead had been his first such act.

Loving him might be his last.

Castiel rolled his sleeves up a little tighter, not stopping even when it occurred to him how human a gesture it was. He settled his hands on his thighs, and began to breathe deeply and evenly. He felt the floorboards beneath his knees, the concrete below that, the cold, living earth even deeper. His fingers felt the heat of his own flesh, now truly his own. Beneath that, muscle. And beneath that, bone. But he was more than these things, more than their frailty could contain. Not beneath, but _inside_, he reached for his grace, in the place that existed beyond the material of creation, connecting with the cold fire of its brilliance and the powerful push and ebb, like the pulse of a human heart.

He concentrated on his grace and allowed its power to fill the spaces of his vessel. It rushed just under his fingertips crashing against the barrier of his skin like ocean waves. _Establish the link_, he thought to himself, and opened human eyes. Fabric of the tent for the tents themselves. Earth to earth.

"_Noan noar noan ovof_ . . ." Words spilled from Castiel's lips in the language of angels in the _voice _of an angel. He felt them grip the air and begin to tear. They struck the implements within the circle, invading their being, and the circle itself flashed into life.

The words did not stop. Magic ripped through space, connecting the small patches to the tent structures themselves, seeking out the ground from which tiny portions were dug. It wove like snakes, tumbling, hissing, pulling power along with them. Castiel's grace burned, flaring at the sudden draw. The words did not stop—they came in torrents, feeding the spell. Castiel's own true voice speaking and shaping his will. He did not have to look any longer and closed his eyes to concentrate.

The world cannot stand the being of an angel. At the potency of his voice, the windows shook, shook, and shattered, spraying glass as they fell. The ground rumbled, a slow turning that grew to a terrible roar. Nearly all of the mobile processing centers were enveloped in the thaumaturgical scheme, and Castiel pushed harder to close the web. His body rocked, and power screamed down and out his arms. They had lifted themselves as if to hold the raging force in the sphere of his hands. He could not remember to breathe. Bright-warm–glory-lightness filled his being, and he could feel it clawing at his insides, his true self striving to be free.

The words could not stop. They shaped themselves and ripped like hot coals down Castiel's throat to be spoken, faster, louder, they would be free. But he needed them to move. To move. To _move_. The magic reached for his grace, needing more power. It would devour it, devour him. It needed more, more energy to make this manifest, more power. _Move!_

The house quaked, and everything flew and fell. Rogue energy lashed for freedom, whipping wind and destruction. Castiel resisted the pull, twisted as the magic yawned for more of his power and soul. And he willed the implements move. He could feel them, shifting as the building around him groaned. He could sense them lifting and shimmering, the magic bending to his strength and his word. It was almost, _almost_ . . .

A lancing pain choked him to a moment's silence as the magic pierced into his grace and fed.

Everything churned, convulsed. It was going to eat him alive. He struggled in panic as the world faded. He was going to die.

XXX

Dean stood at the top of the Macy's in the Hanover Mall leaning against the wall that was just high enough to keep him from plummeting to his death. Cas was right. It was a good vantage point. He let his gaze trace over the parking lot. It was mostly empty, thankfully. The lights were off, just like everywhere else in town, so really all he could see were the curved reflections of moonlight on metal car roofs.

He jumped when his phone buzzed.

"Cas?" he answered, keeping his voice low. Why was he whispering?

He listened as his angel gave him some more bullshit explanation about wanting to be sure the spell worked okay. "It'll be fine, man. I don't know what you're so worried about." Dean affected a smile and even a wink into his tone, but he couldn't tell if Cas was listening. All he heard was the knock of the phone being put on the floor and then distant words.

It sounded like Cas's voice at first, muffled, but definitely his. Then it changed. The reception on the phone crackled a little and whined loudly into Dean's ear. He flinched, pulling it away. Then brought it cautiously back. "Cas?" Buzzing words like spoken honeybees answered him, and he straightened. It took him a second, and it was coming through all wrong on the phone, but that was Castiel's voice, his _real _one.

Dean felt his heart rate jump, blood suddenly pounding in his ears. It explained why Cas had wanted to get rid of him so bad. But—

His breath left him in a painful rush when it hit him that he was hearing Cas's _voice_. And it didn't hurt or make his ears bleed. Something about being over the phone . . . and suddenly Dean couldn't listen hard enough. He pressed the phone into his ear trying to make out the harmonies of it, trying to hear _his _Cas inside of that mass of sound.

The world changed. Dean's senses got that prickling feeling, and he spun around. A cold, bitter wind blew hard across the parking lot, biting his face and hands. Dean turned, peering out over the wall, as fog boiled from the air. It rolled in from nowhere, just exploding in oozing puffs until the whole place gleamed in murky moonlight. Dean's eyes darted back and forth as his body wound with tension. The air blew in shifting patterns, hot from the north, cold from the west, wet from the east. He shivered from the unnatural quality of it. Static charged the air, and the hairs on his arms stood on end.

"Oh, this had better be you," Dean muttered to himself.

Something large and metal groaned. And Dean jumped back when a streetlamp snapped at the base and fell. Everything became very, very, dark, and Dean glanced up to see the moon being swallowed by clouds. His shiver worsened, and he gripped the phone harder as he clenched his fists, having forgotten it was there.

"Shit."

A loud shriek pierced his ear from the phone. Dean jumped before he realized what it was, then shouted into the cell. "Cas?" He pulled the phone away; the signal had dropped to nearly nothing. "Cas!" He shouted again and then heard the other end hang up just before all Hell broke loose.

On further consideration, the top of a building was a shitty place to be in a storm.

It formed out of nowhere, the clouds and fog suddenly whipping into breathtaking violence. A fury of wind came from every direction, knocking Dean to his knees. He scrambled for the access door, still clutching his phone, and pressed his back against it as clouds and fog and rain beat themselves into a funnel. He shook in helpless terror as the gales burned his eyes and forced them shut. Rain became stinging sleet. Lightning flashed, and his skin damn near froze off from a blast out of the arctic. But nothing, nothing compared to the thunder. And it didn't come from no lightning. Dean's stomach dropped, and the concussion wrung the air from his lungs as tons of earth and people and little wavy circus flags at the pinnacle of the big top appeared out of nowhere. It was like being inside a ringing bell. Dean's whole body was stunned with it, pain everywhere.

And then it stopped.

Dean blinked wind-whipped tears out of his eyes, trying to see. As he started to push himself up using the door behind him for support, the strong winds died away. The fog evaporated. And the moon reappeared to light his way. Shaking, he stepped cautiously toward the edge of the building and looked over. They were all there.

He'd done it. The sonuvabitch. He'd—

Dean looked sharply at the phone in his hand as he remembered the aborted sound of a scream. Panic clutched the base of his spine and spun upward until he was beating down the access door and running. _Cas_.

XXX

Dean coulda been there fifteen damned minutes faster if he hadn't had to find a car with a GPS. But fuck, he didn't know this town! And Cas had been blipping him all over the place like he _was _a frickin transporter, so he had no clue where he'd been or where he'd ended up. South was about all he knew. He needed to go south. But thank _God _he'd thought to rifle through the Talbots' things, including their mail, cause at least he could plug _287 White Pine Court_ into the GPS. He drove like his wheels were on fire, clutching the steering wheel in the mother of all death grips and taking corners on a drift.

The lights were out at the house, and Dean's heart rate took a jump at that bad omen.

He left the headlights aimed at the front door, even though it meant parking on the lawn, and flew out of the car with the engine still running.

"Cas!" He burst through the front door, or tried to. Dean gave the door an offended look and shoved hard against it, pushing something heavy out of the way. Not much light got in around the shadow he was casting, but Jesus _fuck_ the place was wrecked. "Castiel!" Dean bellowed and plunged into the mostly darkened living room. Broken glass crunched, and he tripped over shattered boards. Pieces of ceiling hung down around large holes that had blasted clean through to the upper floor.

Panting, Dean let his eyes adjust, trying to make out shapes. _Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, please _. . . He saw two dark pools, darker than anything around them, bits of shredded white. Whatever they were, they looking unnatural. He drew closer, kicking aside whatever was in his way. The sofa was broken in half, its frame cracked over—

Dean gasped like he'd been stabbed, a biting pain right to his heart, and he'd swear to God he felt it skip a beat.

He was on his knees, fighting with something large and black as fucking night and—

Dean stared at the wing in his hand, breathless. He couldn't— he'd wondered but didn't know if it was wrong to ask. And now he— He moved his hand, letting the cool and silky feathers slide around his fingers, leaving a strange burning in their wake. Cas really did have wings, feathery birdlike awesome ones. Dean swallowed hard, forgetting for a moment that he had any reason to exist beyond brushing his hand over Cas's wing.

The cold, stinging burning silk sensation went straight to his core. It warmed his groin. His attention jolted back. _Sick fuck_. There were times for that kind of shit.

Still awed, Dean gently bent the wing out of his way so he could kneel. Adrenaline pumped so fast through his veins it had him shaking, but he controlled it enough to shoulder the twisted metal of the sofa bed up until he could get a good grip and then push it all the way to standing. He heaved, and the whole thing toppled, screeching and breaking more things as it went.

"Cas?" Dean was back on his knees, lifting one of Castiel's feathered limbs so he could slide under and roll him onto his back, or at least his side. The torn remnants of the angel's shirt clung at his elbows, looking faintly ridiculous. That was all Dean could make out without more light. "Castiel." Dean took him in his arms and arranged them best he could, pulling Cas across his lap so his wings had space around them, lifeless as they were. He shook him hard. "Castiel!" It was just a spell. Just a stupid spell. "Don't you dare"—he gripped Cas's face in one hand—"don't you fucking dare!"

Castiel jerked, and Dean was sure his heart was gonna fall out of his chest right then. He felt Cas heave and suck in a huge breath, and suddenly the lights flared back to life. Cas's wings, big and black like oil slicks flapped nervously as he blinked back into consciousness.

"Dean," he said groggily.

Dean laughed a little. "Morning sunshine." And didn't mind that his voice cracked.

Cas swung a frown at him and shifted to sit up on his own. One wing battered the back of Dean's head, and Dean reached out to touch for the sheer pleasure of it as much as to keep from being conked a second time. They both stared with a different kind of wonder, and Castiel made a weak, crumbling sound when Dean brushed his hand through the feathers. That was a sound Dean was pretty sure he knew, and the Devil in him glanced over to see. Yeah. By the parted lips and hooded eyes, that'd felt good. But when Cas blinked, his expression cleared. He looked at his wing, still tangled in Dean's hand, and blushed. Actually blushed! A second later, the wings were gone.

"Hey!" Dean scowled playfully. "I was lookin' at that."

Cas gave him an apologetic and embarrassed little look and then worked his way up to standing. He wavered some, and as Dean got up, he slid an arm around Cas's waist just in case, hoping he wouldn't take it the wrong way.

"What happened?" Dean asked, after a few moments of Castiel silently surveying the carnage.

He didn't reply, instead pulling away to collect a few scraps from his shirt that littered the floor. Cas pulled the remnants from his arms as well and balled everything he found together. He held it there for a second, and then flapped the garment out, full and whole, like he was shaking out wrinkles.

"The spell got out of control," he said finally.

Dean snorted and watched him put his shirt back on like it was the most important thing in the world. "No shit. I can _see_ that."

Cas did up the buttons calmly, watching his own fingers work. "It needed more power and started . . . channeling my grace to get it." He glanced up and met Dean's eyes.

Channeling his grace? Dean found himself coming closer. That didn't sound right, didn't sound safe. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Castiel!"

The angel's shoulders sagged a little. "My grace will recover."

That was not Dean's definition of okay. He pressed his eyes shut and pulled Cas into a hug that was more protective than fierce. His heart beat so hard in his chest he was pretty sure Cas could feel it. But that was okay, he wanted him to. Stupid ass. He must've known it could happen, the type of danger he was putting himself in. After a moment, Castiel sank against him, relaxing into Dean's hold, and Dean couldn't quite work up the anger anymore.

"Your spell worked, by the way," he said in a conversational tone. "Got all of 'em. Though I nearly got blown off the roof, so you might wanna watch that next time."

"Sorry," Cas muttered.

"Yeah well," Dean said as he let him go. "Keep in mind not all of us have wings, huh?"

The angel averted his eyes and pressed his lips into a thin line, which really _was_ kind of puzzling. So, he had wings. That was bad? It was actually kinda hot. Dean gave him a long, sly look, and went on. "And don't think we're not talking about _that _later."

"Dean."

He ignored him and started picking his way over toward the stairs so he could change and grab the stuff they were taking back with them. "Might as well armor up, man. Figure we grab what we need, dump the rest of this stuff back at the car, and wait." He turned to find Castiel lifting up the edge of a busted table to retrieve Gabriel's jacket. "You good here?"

Castiel looked up. "Yes." The corners of his mouth turned up, but the expression didn't reach his eyes. Not while he held his brother's clothes in his hand, anyway.

Dean nodded because it was all he could do. He started jogging up the stairs, then stopped suddenly and looked back. "Hey, Cas."

The angel glanced his way.

"Black wings are fuckin' awesome, man." He smiled like he meant it, cause he did.

Castiel returned a confused, nearly embarrassed look that didn't make any sense and shrugged faintly. Dean left thinking that, yeah, he couldn't _wait _to have that conversation.

XXX

Dean slammed the Impala's trunk shut and hefted a backpack onto one shoulder. The bottles inside clinked against one another.

"You sure about this?" he asked.

Castiel gazed at him, the only movement in his body the slight frown that slowly slipped across his face. He'd switched into Gabriel's white tee; it made him somehow look less prepared. "No."

Dean smirked and tested the weight of the sword blazing blue in his pattern-painted hand. "Yeah . . ." He said nothing more, because they'd been over it, and only looked up from studying the tip of the sword because he caught the movement of Cas's hand.

Space folded under the pressure of angel wings, compressing Dean's chest for a second. It made him inhale automatically when they landed . . . appeared . . . whatever, and he blinked around. They were on the roof of the mall again. Dean's boots scuffed along the asphalt roofing as he moved toward the edge, an archangel's sword hanging heavy from his hand. He let the bag down gently. Everything was just as he'd left it—massive tents slouching uneasily on their transplanted ground. They were filled with the dead. Every one.

"Do you really think he's gonna come?" he asked quietly.

Castiel leaned his arms against the wall beside him with his fingers intertwined. "He will."

"You sound sure."

There was a moment's silence, and then he heard Cas turn and looked over. "I have faith," he said in that low steady way of his—the way that made Dean want to have faith too. And maybe something in his expression said as much, because Cas put a hand on his shoulder before Dean could smirk dismissively. Dean nodded absently and turned around to lean his back against the wall. Gabriel's jacket was thick enough to keep out the cold, and the reminder was enough to get him thinking about _them_, wherever they were. They'd be fine, he kept telling himself, and Sam was coming back. Just had to get through this thing was all, and then he and Cas could make sure of it. Castiel said he'd find a way, and that Dean _did _believe.

It was cold. And it was boring. And after not too long of staring around at rooftop, Dean started to yawn. He fought it at first and played with the sword to keep himself occupied. But it was heavy holding that damned thing, and he figured he'd better set it down before his arm got too weary to lift it.

He shook himself awake at the sudden sound of Castiel's voice. "You're tired. You should get some sleep."

"'M fine," Dean muttered back, propping himself up straighter against the wall.

"There's nothing for you do to while we wait," Cas said and turned to look at him. "Get some sleep." He was using his commanding voice, which was far sexier than he'd ever realize.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "You gonna make me?" he shot back, hiding a smile.

"If that's how you want it."

They held gazes for a second, both trying not to grin. Castiel edged closer, and Dean lost the contest, chuckling to himself. He shook his head and lowered to the ground with a groan. They weren't standing near a corner or anything, so he scooted over, dragging the sword with him like a Teddy Bear, and leaned against Cas's legs.

"Wake me when we get there," he mumbled around another yawn.

The last thing he felt before drifting off was Castiel's hand settling on the top of his head. The first thing he heard was Cas barking out his name.

Dean's eyes flashed open, and he instinctively gripped the sword hilt in his hand, even before he remembered where he was. Then the blood started rushing through him, beating drums of war in his ears, and he was on his feet, trying to follow Castiel's gaze. The thunderous sound of a train was coming in their direction from the west. Dean grabbed the backpack and started to jog across the roof for a better look.

"Wait!" Cas called from behind him. "Dean!"

He sounded annoyed, but if Dean was gonna fight this thing, he wanted to see it coming, know what he was facing. He covered the length of the store beneath him in quick, sure strides, trailing the blue fire of the sword behind him and loping with a gait that wouldn't rattle the glass bottles. He could make out dust churning through the air, but nothing solid, nothing yet. Not until he could see over the lip of the—

"Dean!"

Cas grabbed him. Suddenly just _there_ and solid, right where Dean was heading. They collided, and Cas spun them to disperse the momentum. He slapped a hand over Dean's eyes and bound him with an arm across his chest.

"Fuck, Cas!" He jerked and tried to shoulder him off. "What the hell!" He clawed at the hand over his eyes.

"You were going to look at him."

"Ya think? I _have _to, genius. I can't fight him with my eyes closed! Isn't that what the war paint and jacket are for?" _Christ_.

Castiel pressed Dean firmly to stop his struggling and brought his mouth to Dean's ear. "If you look at him now, the ward will start to burn. It will be wasted time."

Dean huffed as much of a breath as he was able with Cas's arm squeezing the life out of him. He flexed his jaw petulantly. "So you want me to stand here with my thumb up my ass."

He felt the scrape of Cas's cheek as the angel adjusted, presumably to stare at him. After a second he said, "I want you to wait."

The world lost its floor.

If Dean thought angel airlines was disorienting _before_, it was only 'cause he'd never done it blindfolded. As far as he could actually tell, nothing had changed, but he leaned drunkenly against Cas anyway and made an unhappy sound.

"Where . . .?"

"Duck."

Dean was born a hunter. When someone says duck, you damned well duck. He dropped to his knees, Cas still holding him close and blinded, and tried to sense, fuck, _anything_. But there was just roaring, grinding thunder, like a frickin' earthquake, so close it didn't even have a direction. And then Cas spun him around and let him go and pushed him up against something in one swift motion that left the whole world an oil paint smear. Dean gasped at the suddenness of it, but Hallelujah at least he could see!

He balled a first and punched Cas in the shoulder, hard enough to be noticed but not _that _hard, 'cause he wasn't stupid. It earned him a mildly offended look, which was fine, cause he was mildly offended himself. Satisfied, Dean glanced around enough to finally see where they were: the parking lot, which was liberally scattered with abandoned vehicles. He and Cas were ducking behind someone's Beemer. Castiel peered through the windows, his eyes narrowed and blazing with purpose. Around them, everything started to shake.

Dean clutched Gabriel's sword a little tighter.

"What do you see?" he shouted at Cas over the sound, antsy to get up and get moving.

The angel lowered back down and turned a grim expression Dean's way. "He's brought an army."

He— "_Excuse _me? He—" Cas's rules could get fucked. Dean popped up and had a look for himself.

Ho-ly shit. There were some things you could never un-see, and Dean had seen a lot of 'em, but when Cas had said "demon," this wasn't what Dean had pictured. Demons were . . . demons, spirits in meatsuits, just like angels.

"What the . . . Hell." He snapped a glare at Cas and jabbed a finger toward the windows. "What the Hell is that?"

"Asag."

"Cas, that is no demon!"

"He's an archdemon, and he—"

"Demons look like people!"

The angel averted his eyes. "This one made some modifications."

Dean sputtered and snuck another look. The . . . thing sliding across the lot was Stephen King meets Alien meets Kumonga. Three long spider legs smashed into the blacktop as it came, carrying a misshapen fleshy mass that could once have been a human body, which fumed a trail of black smoke. Two arms could almost have been from a man if that man was the Hulk and fifty feet tall. The third . . . waved through the air over the headless torso, jointed in too many places, flashing spikes that might be fingernails. He couldn't see a mouth, even though he knew it had one. Dean's stomach roiled, and he grimaced at the taste of bile.

"The yellow spots are eyes," Cas said.

The yellow spots stuck out like boils from skin that shined like an obsidian carapace.

Dean couldn't breathe. Just looking at this thing, and he couldn't _breathe_. Dean curled the fingers of his left hand into the crevice of the window, and that's when he noticed the burning. His fingertips tingled at the very ends, and he thought that was it for Asag's aura—score one for Cas's fingerpainting.

He was wrong.

It swallowed him like falling into acid, hurt so much that the shock kept him from screaming. All he could manage was gasping and crumpling helplessly on the ground. _Hate. Hatepainhungryfirehungry_. His throat burned with stuck agony. He felt knives, Alistair's knives slicing through his skin, lifting it off one layer at a time because that's where the good nerves were. Sharp. Pain, blossoming razors. The fire burns hottest if you _dig down_.

"Dean!"

He shoved at the hands that grabbed for his wounds and choked out a whimper.

"Dean, look at me!"

He knew that voice, good, safe. It would make things better, beautiful, take away the pain. Like leaping, he opened his eyes to see Castiel hovering protectively, blue eyes wide with worry. They looked cool and shone with something powerful and lovely. The scar on Dean's shoulder pulsed at the proximity and memory.

This wasn't Hell. Dean touched his stomach and felt the leather of the archangel's armor, whole and unblemished.

"We are inside his aura now," Cas said, like it wasn't obvious.

Dean blinked, took an unsteady breath, and pushed himself up on shaky arms. "Yeah," he said, nodding. "Caught that."

Castiel made room, watching Dean with a caution like he'd taken lessons from Sam. "You can do this?"

Dean grabbed the sword and got himself into a ready, crouching position. The memories quickly receded like one of his bad dreams. "Do I have a choice?" He looked down at his hand. The ward was gone up to his knuckles. Fantastic. He motioned with the sword. "Those things . . ."

"Minions."

"Minions? Demons get _minions_ now? What do we get?"

Cas gave him a very serious look before standing up to his full height, putting himself within Asag's notice. "You."

Yeah, they were doomed.

Asag bellowed like a halting steam train, and Castiel turned a calm, confident look his way. "Now would be a good time to run," he said to Dean, not shifting his gaze.

Dean hopped to his feet and ran, sword and secret weapon in his hands.

The demon's minions were boulders, like snowmen made of stone. And there were far too many of them. Dean dodged between cars as they rolled and shuffled forward throwing up dust and dirt. Halfway between one car and another, Dean saw one form itself out of the asphalt, ripping limbs up from the ground with a terrible thunder. They clattered, smashed, hurled pieces of themselves, swarmed over the cars and crushed them under their weight.

But they also cleaved nicely in two. Dean hit one by accident. It was suddenly too close for comfort, and he just swung the sword out without thinking. The blade sunk in pretty far on its own, farther than any normal blade, and then Dean just leaned into it, slicing the edge clean through to the other side. Bits of stone tumbled at his feet before he was even done.

He had to keep running. Poorly aimed rocks rained down wherever he went, and the golems kept coming. They moved fast for clods of earth. From the hood of a sedan, Dean took one's head off in a single swing, only to discover that the high ground, in this case, was not an advantage. A rock the size of a baseball slammed him in the ribs, and he fell, sliding from the hood and tumbling to the ground.

_Shit_. But he couldn't breathe. With the wind knocked out of him, his body wouldn't do anything but struggle for more. A shape and shadow passed near, followed by the thunder of stone smashing into stone. Dean felt himself gripped and hauled as Cas moved them behind the relative safety of a car.

"You must get closer."

Dean sucked for air and glared at him, finding breath on the second try. "Got too many of 'em," he coughed out. The window above them shattered, and the car rang from the impact of stones. Castiel looked up calmly. He didn't flinch as another volley sprayed rock chips and dirt over them. "Get closer." His voice was steel. Dean felt the air shift as Cas rose with clenched fists. Briefly, he smelled cut grass and rain. The angel cut a sharp look in Dean's direction, and he scrambled to get his feet beneath him.

Crouching, Dean opened the backpack and drew out one of the bottles they'd specially prepared: a Molotov cocktail of gasoline and angel-bane holy oil. They didn't know what it would do. But if the flames could destroy an archangel, maybe they'd take down an archdemon, too. It was a working theory.

Dean gave Cas a small nod.

The wards were burning up to his forearms.

Castiel unfolded his fingers, the only outward sign that he was dipping into the greater power of his grace. His eyes narrowed in disgust, hands twitched, and the car they had been hiding behind shot from its place, plowing through minions like a bowling ball. Dean wasted a second staring, then started to run. He went wide, hoping to skirt the demon and its minions. At the edge of his vision, he saw Cas wading in. Cars suddenly flew forward, scattering the rock beasts on impact. Cas knocked them to pieces with his bare fists. He gripped them with his mind and tossed them into one another, into Asag, who staggered and roared, billowing exhaust.

The air was nothing but ripping metal and breaking stone.

Dean ducked, dodged, and cut his way closer. He swung the sword like a bat, knocking missiles from his way. He was pretty fast, but Asag had eyes everywhere. He jumped the rubble of a fallen foe, and it was nothing but open ground between him and Asag's hulking form.

Cas was plowing forward, driving for Asag himself.

Dean saw the creature shift its balance and fling an open hand his direction. He felt power like the pull of a current flow and break around him, unable to grip. Gabriel's armor. Asag's eyes blinked and narrowed, arms bundled, and the one overhead lashed out with taloned fingers. The ground all around Dean started to shake and crack. Blacktop peeled itself up from the dirt below. Heart pounding, Dean hugged the bottle close to his chest and charged one of the half-formed rock minions. He shoved the archangel's sword into it like planting a flag and pulled it out like King frickin' Arthur.

Time was ticking.

Dean could feel it burning on his skin. He hurried to close the space between himself and the demon. Cas flung one of the minions high in the air, and Asag caught it and threw it back. It struck the ground where Castiel used to be, and Dean nearly shouted with pride when he saw the trench coat flutter at one of the demon's legs, bright fabric just visible through the smokescreen.

But that meant Cas was closer than he was, and he was dropping his end of the plan—if you could call this suicide a plan.

Asag's yellow eyes blinked all over its body, but by the way it angled itself, its attention was all on Cas. Made sense. An angel was a bigger threat than some human. Dean watched the demon rear back and realized it was going to take a swing. And Castiel was just standing there, _ready_, like he wanted it to. Horror burst in Dean's stomach when he realized that he did. Cas was buying time.

Even expecting it, Dean couldn't be sure he didn't scream Castiel's name. Asag's talon of a leg shot out, knocking the angel to the ground, and then impaled his shoulder, sinking all the way through. One of the demon's arms balled into a giant fist and beat down on him, cracking the black top. Dean never stopped running. This wasn't the plan, but the plan could go screw itself. He swung Gabriel's fiery sword at the nearest leg, ran underneath, ducking Asag's maw, and cut through the one on the other side. He wheeled, shaking with rage and exertion, coughing from the demon's cloud and trying not to look at the black spear pinning his lover to the ground. Blood like tar oozed out the demon's wounds, burning whatever it touched. It's many eyes flashed and rolled, and one arm snatched at a severed limb.

To Dean's horror, the limb and bloody stump melded back together when they touched. Asag staggered backward on two limbs until it could find its balance.

"Dean." Cas's voice was rough with pain. He sucked a labored breath and stifled a cry as blood ran down and into his wound. He was looking at the bottle Dean still held in his hand.

Right.

"Hey, ugly!" Dean strode forward, making himself a shield. Around him broken piles of rubble started to roll toward one another and gather shape. "Recognize this?" He swung the flaming sword. "Hurts like a sonuvabitch, don't it?" Asag shimmered with what Dean guessed was rage. "Well you ain't seen nothing yet." He smiled wickedly and held the bottle out. The wick miraculously burst into flames, and he hurled it at Asag's thickest part.

Fire splashed over the demon's body, and it let out a roar that sent Dean to his knees. His insides shook, nearly liquified with its rage, and he struggled to get the second bottle out. He caught a glimpse of Castiel jerking, his hands slipping and smoking in the blood on the spear. Cas wrapped his coat around his hands and pushed the talon out. He hurled it with considerable strength. Their eyes connected for a moment, and then Dean took off, loping around Asag as he struggled. Its arms flailed, beating at its own boiling skin. The reek of tar and flesh filled the air, exhaust pluming out—nearly obscuring Asag himself.

Its back eyes could still see. And as Dean came around, the demon clawed the ground to turn and follow. It lurched, striking out with a fist, and Dean instinctively raised the sword to block the blow. Fingers severed themselves on the blade, and black blood sprayed down like acid on Dean's face. He cried out and tried to wipe it clean.

"Cas!"

"Throw the bottle!"

Dean blinked against the blinding blood and just threw, not really able to aim. He heard the glass break, but stumbled away. The jacket sloughed off most of the poison, but it burned his face and eyes.

"Cas!" Dean's voice was high and desperate, barely audible to even himself above Asag's agony. He turned and held the sword toward the source of the sound and shuffled backward.

"Dean," Cas's voice sounded behind him just before the angel wrapped him in an embrace.

"I can't see!" Dean panted.

He felt Castiel's fingers slide over his eyes, followed by a cool wash of relief. His chest still heaved, but he held himself still, trusting Cas knew what he was doing.

"Try now."

Dean pried Cas's fingers away and blinked at the inferno shambling back and forth way too close for comfort.

"Jesus!" He shoved them both back and then caged Cas behind him with his arms. That fire killed angels.

Asag lurched, burning and clawing its own body, screaming like Dean hadn't heard since Hell. It lost its balance and fell backward, bucking in agony.

"Dean, the wards," Cas said, tense.

He felt burning creeping up his neck. "Biceps," he replied.

The demon flopped and jostled. Maybe it was the screaming—how it didn't need to take a breath. Souls in Hell could scream like that, once they forgot to think like a human anymore. Or maybe it was the fact that they were just standing there, watching a living inferno. Dread flooded Dean's body.

"He's not dying," Dean shouted over his shoulder. "Shouldn't he be dying?"

Cas rested a hand on him. "I don't know." His voice somehow carried through the noise.

Dean clenched his jaw, an emotion he couldn't identify rising and roiling in his chest. "Enough of this." He started forward, pulling out of Cas's grip.

"Dean?"

He spun and pointed the sword at Castiel's chest. "You've got my back, right?"

"Always," the angel replied automatically. "Dean, what are you doing?" The terrible fire reflected in his eyes.

He didn't know. It was stupid, maybe. But he had a sword made to kill demons, and a demon that needed killing. And maybe the two of those things needed to meet. He flipped the sword to an underhand grip, his expression briefly cracking into one full fear.

"Dean . . ." Cas said again, alarmed, and moving to follow, but the flare and heat of the blaze kept him back.

Angels couldn't pass through the holy fire without dying. But Dean, as he was often reminded, wasn't an angel. He turned his back on the horrified look of understanding on Castiel's face and charged.

The sword worked like an ice pick, and he hauled himself up the creature's body. Flames seared his shoes and clothes with a heat he'd been trying to forget. He had survived being boiled, branded with hot red irons, swallowing coals. All of it had been real. Sweat and tears poured out of him from the fire and pain, but he could feel something else, something cold and tingling wrapping around his legs and thighs, something that filled him with courage and kept him from falling over and dying.

He balanced, crushing eyes beneath his boots and straddled Asag's body at the base. Legs kicked the air around him. Flames shot him. With a desperate shout, he swung the blade down like an axe and fell to his knees. His skin and clothes burned at the contact, and he hollered at the top of his scorched lungs.

The sword and flame sank into and through the demon's maw, cracking and burning through its flesh. Asag jittered, flexing and jerking its bulk. The third arm swung toward him but could not break the barrier of Gabriel's armor, skittering off with a jolt and spark. Dean held. Then he leaned back pulled the blade through, throwing back his weight and howling with the effort it took to cut through the jaw.

He split it, like a log. Heaving and hissing and crying from the fire burning his skin, the smoke and exhaust roasting his insides, and acidic blood splattering everywhere. But he opened that fucker up like a fish.

Everything hurt, even breathing. Dean couldn't feel the ground and didn't notice as he stumbled from the pools of blood that the sword fell from his hand.

Dean's knees shook. He barely felt his body contact with the pavement. The nerves might be gone. Burning. God, the burning. Every heartbeat was like stripping off his skin with a dull knife. Please. Let it be over. Please just make it stop. Make the pain stop. He'd say yes. Whatever they wanted. He sobbed without stretching the muscles of his face. You learned to do that on the rack. _Kill me._ The world rolled, and he blinked up into worried cerulean eyes. _Cas_.

The angel spoke. "You are an idiot."


	9. Chapter 9

Sam's body moved independently from his brain. He was slicing through the bonds on Gabriel's wrists and cutting them free from one another without knowing he'd reached for his knife. Gabriel slumped against him, boneless, lifeless, not breathing. _Dead. Dead. _His mind stuttered over this one word, then _no no no_, with rapid heartbeats. Sam gathered him up like he weighed nothing and staggered to his feet. He slid and stumbled down the entrance to the cave, uncontrolled and weak from his ordeal. His feet caught on the flat ledge at the bottom, and with a startled cry, they both tumbled into the Fountain of Youth.

_Don't, please! Don't die. _Sam kicked to the surface, scrabbling to find solid ground beneath him. He still had an arm wrapped around Gabriel's chest and pulled him tight, hauling the angel's head above water.

He wasn't breathing.

He wasn't _breathing_.

Sam's feet found the floor of the pool and he hiked Gabriel higher. He pried the angel's mouth open and struggled with slippery fingers to hold him up and breathe into him. _C'mon_. Sam shifted, gripping both hands under Gabriel's ribs, and squeezed, pumping the angel's chest with all of his strength. He sloshed around, got his head back into position and forced in another breath, not caring about the weeping sores and terrible bruises his fingers passed over as he tried to caress life back into him. _Don't do this._

"Please." _We made it._

Another round of compressions at the wrong angle. Desperation, panic and cool water made him shake. But they were _here_, Gabriel couldn't die if they were here. Surely . . .

Sam closed his mouth on Gabriel's a third time and started to exhale. The body in his arms jerked and sucked the rest of the air straight from his lungs.

"Gabriel?" Their heads were barely above the surface of the water, and there was only the light shining in from outside to see by. Sam watched, hope frozen in his chest as the archangel's eyes opened to slits. He felt slight pressure from Gabriel's elbow against him and loosened his grip. Gabriel nudged further, and Sam frowned, unsure, as the angel started to slip. Let him go? What if he went under? What if he drowned? _Could _he drown? But it seemed to be what he wanted, so despite every instinct screaming otherwise, Sam let him go. His head slipped under the dark surface of the water, and after a second, all traces of the angel were gone.

Sam stood tense and staring into the pool. It was like ink, impenetrable to his eyes. He waited. Waited and breathed unsteadily, listening, watching, and feeling with his being.

He wasn't coming up. Sam had let Gabriel slip between his fingers, barely alive, and _fuck_, maybe he _could _drown. At the thought, Sam pushed forward, clawing his way through the fountain's strange waters. With growing panic, he searched with outstretched fingers, not knowing how far back the fountain stretched or how deeply it sank a few steps beyond. "Gabriel!" His voice echoed on the rocks.

Something touched his leg.

Sam jerked back on reflex, and then he felt it again, a grip on his knee, strong and then quickly gone. He edged back onto higher ground and surer footing and froze, eyes trained on the calm, mirrored surface of the water, his breathing heavy and punctuated. Gabriel's name hung hopeful and delicate on the tip of his tongue. _Please_.

The graceful, glorious, arches of the wings were first. They broke the surface of the pool without a ripple, feathers perfect and searing in their brilliance. Sam's breath caught. Gabriel emerged from the darkness like a rising sun, moving steadily closer. He stopped well within arm's reach, regarding Sam with a rare intensity.

He was perfect. The bleeding sores that had marked his skin were washed clean. Perfect. _Healed_. Sam's heart squeezed in sweet, painful relief. He took a breath, not knowing what to say, and surged forward crushing the angel into an embrace. He hadn't thought . . . it had been so close . . . so _terrifying_. God . . . he squeezed tighter and sobbed once against Gabriel's neck. The archangel's strong hands slowly circled and settled on his back, encouraging new tears with their tenderness.

Sam sniffed and pulled back so he could see. At first the words wouldn't come, obscured by too white and bright a joy. Then, "You're okay," he managed over a smile and tight throat.

A tear slipped down his reddened face, and Gabriel lifted a hand, brushing through the track with his thumb. He studied Sam's face with a look of bitter sweetness. Sam returned a quizzical expression, still not quite trusting himself to speak.

"No one has ever cried for me before," Gabriel said softly, his mouth forming a wry grin at the paucity of his existence.

Sam blinked and found Gabriel gazing at him with wonder. The angel moved, crowding in closer with gentle assertion. Their eyes locked with a sudden, sharp heat that burst through Sam's spine. Unfathomable power lurked in that darkness, the depths of space and starry nights. He felt singular and small, pinned by instinctive part of his brain that feared this mighty soul. Gabriel slid his hand down Sam's cheek until he cupped his neck, fingers curling into his dark, damp hair.

Sam swallowed. He hadn't been expecting . . . he didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't Gabriel holding him close, touching their heads together. His body, though. Oh, his body responded, warming to the caress on his neck, the long look of lust. The archangel closed his eyes finally when he spoke.

"You saved me," he said, urgently tugging Sam's skin. "Re-created me."

Sam drew a stunned breath at the force of emotion behind the words. "I . . ."

"Breathed me life," the angel whispered and then rocked down into a kiss, pulling Sam closer with a hand on his neck and waist.

Sam made a hungry, pleased sound. After so much struggle, Gabriel was here and healthy—wanting him. He moved toward the cave wall as Gabriel pressed in, until he was caged in by walls and wings. Gabriel licked and sucked his lower lip like he could not get enough, clutched at his back to draw him deeper. And it felt good, _God_, sparking hot. Sam moaned again when their tongues touched, and he felt his partner smile. _So good_. Touch his face. _Want you_.

But this wasn't right. Couldn't be. And shaking slightly, he pushed Gabriel back. _I'm sorry_.

"Sam?" His breath ghosted over Sam's lips with alluring heat.

"I can't," he responded, barely audible, and pushed the angel further away. Gabriel's hand slipped from his neck, and Sam could feel his heat retreating. He said nothing, and Sam had to gather the courage to keep speaking on his own. "I'm sorry," he said, looking up, "but I can't."

A small frown settled between the angel's perfect brows. Something else, too. Fear and hurt, both quickly masked.

Sam bit on his lower lip for a moment, still swollen from being kissed. These weren't things he wanted to say. "I almost got you killed."

"Sam—"

"No! I'm a liability for you! For everyone . . . I can't . . . the people around me. They die. Okay? Horribly. And . . . I just—"

"Dean is a liability." Gabriel's voice came out rough and less controlled. "And you are to him." Sam looked away. "Was it better when you were apart?"

It stung, even the memory of it. He shook his head minutely. "No."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gabriel reaching to touch his face and shied away, sinking lower into the water and further into the curve of the wall.

"I can't do this." He was sorry, _so _sosorry, but some day, some time, he was going to have to learn. He was dangerous and selfish and thoughtless, and _Christ_, he was trying to do the right thing here and save someone from all that. So why did it feel like dying a little inside? Like his chest was going to crush in around the empty space of his heart.

Gabriel gazed at him steadily, his rapid breathing his only giveaway. "I'm not afraid of the risk."

"Well, I am! Christ, Gabriel, do you have _any_—" Sam cut himself off and for a second just closed down, head bent and eyes screwed shut. Sorrow and shame gathered behind his eyes, and eventually he forced himself to look up. His breaths came in painful gasps and mouth felt suddenly dry. "I almost . . . I tried to . . ." He needed to explain and didn't want to. "It was so hard . . ."

"Sam . . ."

"I almost drank your blood!" He spit it out all in one go and started to shake with an emotion he couldn't identify. "I had your wrist . . . between my teeth. Okay?" He panted. "And I was close, _so _close."

A look of disgust briefly flashed across the angel's face. For a second, he broke eye contact, and Sam was sure he was going to turn away like he should. He looked like someone warring with himself, small motions changing his expression. Eventually, he glanced up, concerned but decided. "But you didn't," Gabriel said. It was somewhere between a statement and a question.

_Dammit! _"But I _wanted_ to," Sam replied, face crumpling. "You can't . . . you can't be with someone who'd"—he winced at his own voice—"_violate_ you like that."

"Sam . . ." Gabriel's voice was kind, far kinder than Sam deserved.

"I'm tired of hurting people," he whispered, letting his eyes fall closed. He couldn't look at Gabriel any more, face his goodness and compassion.

The water flowed noiselessly as the archangel moved closer. Sam sensed his nearness from his body heat and the slight sound of his breathing and tried not to react. When Gabriel said nothing, Sam relented and looked up. Arms braced against the wall of the cave, Gabriel towered a bit over him, flexing his wings lazily. He was gazing at him with interest, care, and a little sorrow. They nearly touched.

"Sam," Gabriel said softly, "do you know what the purpose of an angel is?"

"To fight," he answered quickly.

The look of sorrow deepened, fresh hurt reflecting in the angel's eyes. Gabriel slowly traced a line along Sam's cheek with his thumb. Sam's eyes shuddered in response, and regret sank heavy in his chest at the error of his reply.

"To love," he said lowly.

Gabriel made a sound of assent and returned his hand to the wall. "God made us to love him. And we do. But we aren't enough . . . so he made you." Sam felt the angel's gaze sink into him, an earnest, pleading, affectionate weight. "Some of you love him and pray. You curse, kill, die. Some of you don't even believe." Gabriel lowered scant inches until their foreheads touched. "But when you make love, you say his name."

Sam's heart thundered in his chest, and his knees shook. Just a look or a gesture, and he could be kissing him again. All of this want pulsing in his veins would be satisfied. Gabriel wanted it, wanted _him_—he tasted so good, _felt _so good. It wasn't fair, was never fair. _I can't hurt you_. _Please don't let me hurt you_.

Sam pulled back, aching with the effort. "I can't." His voice cracked.

Gabriel sighed, and Sam watched as he swallowed and drew back, fighting rising emotion. Sculpted lips trembled, as if he might have more to say, but the angel bit it down. The look he gave Sam was nothing short of wounded, but it was brief. His control slipped quickly into place, and his expression took on a stony calm. He pulled further back, moving through the water as if it didn't know he was there. It was only when he had his hands on the ledge and was hauling himself up that Sam realized that he really _was_ just going to leave. He wasn't going to fight, or argue it anymore, or curse, or, hell, take what he wanted. Somehow, being quietly abandoned hurt worse.

"That's it? Since when do you take no for an answer?" Sam called after him, suddenly petulant.

Gabriel paused, holding himself half out of the water. He turned his head slightly to speak over his shoulder. "Since when am I the one asking?"

Sam stared at him and went cold. Gabriel might have masked it quickly, but there was still hurt in his voice, and it made Sam ache to hear it. And more, he was right. Every time they'd been together, it was _Sam's _want, Sam's desire, Sam's need. As though he hadn't been shown visions of himself selfish and thoughtless enough, here it was again, where he'd least imagined it might be.

_No_. Maybe it was the wrong lesson he was learning.

He moved out from the cave wall to stand up straighter. "Ask me again."

For a moment, neither of them moved. _Please don't walk away_.

Then Gabriel dropped back into the fountain's cool waters. He glanced over Sam's face and soaked shirt with glittering curiosity and came toward him. The water level was at Sam's chest where he stood. The back of his head just touched the cave wall. His eyes slid over the angel's wings but settled on the man himself. Gabriel stepped into his personal space, elegant and interested, his attention flickering between the dark green of Sam's eyes and the tempting shape of his mouth.

He grinned slightly, and Sam felt desire spark through his body.

"May I kiss you?" the angel asked, strangely formal but movingly earnest.

Sam unconsciously licked his lower lip and nodded.

This time was different, slower. Gabriel's lips pressed against Sam's lightly, sweetly, and he hesitated. Sam kissed him back a little harder, giving permission that was gratefully taken. Gabriel carded his fingers into Sam's hair again, tasted his upper lip, lower, each kiss lingering and passionate. Sam spread his hands along his partner's lower back, pulling him close, rubbing low and clear of his wings. His body felt shockingly hot in contrast to the water. Gabriel's lips marked the corner of Sam's mouth, his cheek, his jaw, spreading fire. Sam's breath came out ragged at the brush of a tongue along his neck, and his hands rode down further, molding around Gabriel's ass.

The angel lifted his head. "Sam," he whispered breathless, right into his ear, "will you make love to me . . . in this place?"

_Jesus_. Sam nodded and swallowed hard, conscious of his partner's choice of words.

Gabriel ground against him. "Say it."

_Fuck. _"Yes . . ."

And suddenly Gabriel relaxed, nuzzling against him, kissing his cheek. "Then I am in your hands."

The declaration came so easy, the acquiescence. Sam drew back and caught his eyes. "Why do you do that?"

Gabriel canted his head, grinning and frowning slightly in confusion.

"You . . . I don't know." He searched for the right word. "Surrender."

At that, the archangel chuckled and smiled fondly. "Because very rarely is surrender not the same as losing."

Sam grinned, considering the possibilities, running his hands over warm, wet muscles that wanted to be his. A surge of heat and desire uncoiled inside, flowing to his groin, and he felt himself getting hard just at the thought of Gabriel beneath him. And he could remember . . . Sam leaned forward to kiss him. Remember the night, the cold—

He stopped and jerked back, suddenly wary.

"Sam?" Gabriel laid a hand on his chest and peered at him.

"I . . ." He frowned and tried to shake loose the memories. "I need you to tell me something," he said cautiously. The bits of memory that rose up and connected shot a cold spike through his chest.

"Anything," the angel replied watching him in concern.

"Did I . . ." _Holding him down, thrusting, hearing him cry. _"Did I hurt you?" His voice was brittle, but he had to know. The night was so fuzzy, incomplete.

Gabriel let out a small laugh, genuinely amused. "You can't hurt me."

"Yes, I can!" Sam glared and let him go. "I think we've proven that." He drew back and curled down into the curve of the wall. _Fuck_. Of all the things he had to apologize for, maybe some rough sex was the least important. But it _felt _like the most. Horror swelled in the pit of his stomach. He could remember holding him down and not stopping when he met resistance. The other things were big, but this, this was _personal_. "You have to tell me."

Gabriel stared at him, confounded. What he had said was true. Demon illness aside, nothing Sam could do _could _hurt him, not really. They exchanged a long, charged look. Then, "Yes."

"Shit."

"Sam—" Gabriel reached for him and tugged him by the wrist. "Listen."

How could he? Of all the things, he had always tried to be careful, caring, vigilant—

"Sam!" He found himself suddenly clutched in Gabriel's hands, being forced to look him in the eye. The angel spoke slowly and with purpose. "You can never do to me what I do not allow." He was dead serious, and Sam swallowed, taking in his words. "Do you understand?" The archangel's grip loosened, and he let his hands drops away.

"Why would you let me do that?" Sam demanded, fearful of the implications.

The look Gabriel returned was one of somber wisdom. His gaze flicked down to the pool's surface and he moved in, sloshing Sam with water as he held his shoulders for a second and then cupped one cheek. "Because what is needful is not always kind," he said gently.

Sam frowned and ran the sentence through his head a second time. What is needful? _Needful_. Gabriel thought he needed to . . . hurt? Self-disgust and doubt made him wince, and he gazed at his partner, lost. "So you think . . . I need to hurt you?" _Dean was right. Monster._

"Sam." Gabriel rubbed his cheek gently. "I've seen some men deal with their anger by murdering children. Other men deal with it by nursing them back to health. It's an energy. And like all energies, cannot be destroyed. Only transferred or transformed."

Sam shook. "So you made yourself a martyr?" Oh, God . . .

Gabriel's gaze dipped briefly. "I don't yet know the quality of your anger. But . . . that is the quality of my mercy. Sam, I promise you, you _cannot _do more to me than I allow," he said forcefully, dark eyes pleading. "It's okay. I promise."

"But—"

Gabriel drew them together chest to chest and ghosted his lips over Sam's mouth. "Please." He nudged Sam's lips apart. "Please."

Sam let himself be kissed, even as he tried to imagine how his behavior could be considered okay. But Gabriel was here, telling him it was. So it must be.

He relented and shoved them away from the wall. Lips locked on his partner's he struggled with his wet clothes, only to feel Gabriel laugh against him. The angel's hands slipped up under his shirt, and suddenly chill water flowed differently against his bare skin.

Sam broke away, startled. "What—?"

"They're on the ledge." Gabriel whispered and smiled back. Sam's eyes narrowed playfully and he dove in, sucking on that perfect lower lip. He scored it between his teeth, eliciting a small moan that was just the right kind of exciting.

Unhurried, he kissed his way down the angel's cheek and neck. With one hand felt his way down his partner's body and hooked a powerful thigh. They bucked together as Sam guided Gabriel's knee to his hip and the angel suddenly understood, wrapping them together. Sam thrust lazily, rubbing their dicks together, pumping water currents over sensitive flesh. He nipped along the archangel's neck until he sighed and then lifted him up, moving them until Gabriel's wings touched the pool's ledge.

"Mmm." Sam kissed him. "Turn around."

Obediently, Gabriel turned, careful of the breadth of his wings. He let them hang open. Sam's blood pulsed at the sight of them, and he knew this was a purposeful show. Gabriel moved them and stretched them out, spreading his feathers wide. Sam hadn't paid them their proper attention until now. Had barely noticed them, but how could he forget the way the feathers slid through his fingers. He wove his hand through the plumes gently, watching for Gabriel's reaction. Oddly, there wasn't one. Sam shook his head and tried the motion again, gripping a little harder, tugging the way he knew Gabriel enjoyed.

He should be hearing moans, harsh gasps . . . nothing.

Puzzled, he rubbed his palms up and over Gabriel's stomach and chest, drawing him close. He kissed a spot between his shoulder blades. Licked and kissed closer to the joint of his wing. The muscles under his hands tensed. He licked, sucked, closed his lips over the curve of the joint, and got no more than a disconcerting sigh.

Sam frowned and drew himself up, trying not to be alarmed. He glanced over the angel's wings, watching a few feathers lift from the water. They were perfectly dry. In fact . . . he recalled Gabriel's palms on his face, his thumb tracing his cheek. They had been dry as well.

"Are you . . . doing something?" Sam asked without preamble.

Gabriel twisted slightly, craning his golden head around. "I don't know what you mean."

Sam turned him back around and gazed at him as he slid his hand around Gabriel's side and up toward his underwing. His fingers touched the small feathers there. "That's what I mean. Your breath should have hitched." He drew back his hand, suspicious. "And your feathers aren't wet." He gave them a glance.

"The water's cold," Gabriel scowled back, looking a little petulant himself, for once.

Sam blinked and slowly started to laugh. He hung his head, chuckling, and then looked up at his bemused partner. "If it's cold, genius, why don't you warm it up?" It was a little chilly at best. He grinned as Gabriel gave the pool serious contemplation and then spread his hands into the water. "Just do it slow." The angel gave him a look but complied.

Sam's smiled broadened. From the vicinity of Gabriel's hands, he could feel tendrils of heat swirling through the fountain's still waters. As the seconds ticked by, the warmth grew. His muscles started to feel more liquid and alive. Gabriel kept watching him, gauging his reaction. Eventually the pool began to steam, and Sam nodded. He placed a hand on his partner's chest.

"Can you feel me now?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yes." But Sam was already winding around him, anticipating the answer.

This time when his slid his hands into the crevices of his underwings, Gabriel arched and moaned, crushing a kiss to Sam's lips as soon as he was able to breathe. Sam crushed him back, sliding his fingers up, circling the sensitive feathers until Gabriel tore his mouth away to pant. Touch. He shook. _Slide_, he whimpered. Sam loved it when he whimpered.

It was so easy to push him too far, too fast. Gabriel clung to his neck, and Sam dipped them lower into the water, groaning at the heat. He could kiss him for it. Did. For that and everything else, got lost in the joy of connecting, the strange blend of aggression, strength, and yielding.

"Aren't wings a problem in the water?" Sam asked between tasting his partner's mouth and biting along his shoulder.

Gabriel grunted and sighed softly. "You like them. I love that you like them."

Sam lifted his head and pinned the angel against the wall with his weight. "I like _you_," he breathed. "Put them away?"

Dark-eyed, Gabriel nodded, unsure but compliant. Sam couldn't blame him. He'd been so obsessed before. And he _did_ love the wings, how they felt against his skin, how it drove Gabriel mad when they were touched. But there was so much more.

The way his partner pulled at his back and arms trying to get him closer. How he smiled when a graze of fingers made Sam laugh. How he liked to moan into him when they kissed. Gabriel hooked a leg around Sam's waist and yanked him in harder just because he'd learned he could. They thrust against one another, slippingslipping between the tight press of skin.

Panting, Sam pulled back enough to speak. "Water's nice, but . . . I've got a better idea." He motioned toward the flat area of the ledge. "Climb up."

A far too mischievous smile crossed the angel's face, and Sam's arousal flared. Gabriel climbed, and Sam followed. The archangel stretched himself out on the rock, one second dripping, the next second dry. He smirked, pillowed his head on one hand, and Sam gasped at the wave of warmth that rolled over him, sending goose bumps across his flesh.

"Neat trick," Sam murmured and smiled as he stretched out at his partner's side.

"I'm full of surprises."

No kidding. Sam glanced down the length of him, all strong, tight muscle, half-hard cock laying against his belly. Something fluttered in Sam's stomach, wary and anxious.

He ignored it and flattened his hand on Gabriel's chest, thoughtful as he felt him breathe. "What does this feel like to you?"

The angel gazed into him, considering. "How can I answer such a question?" he said seriously, and then reached out to mirror the pose. "What does it feel like to you?"

Sam glanced down. Gabriel's hand was heavy, strong, hotter than any human's hand would be. He moved it, so his fingertips brushed lightly against Sam's skin, and Sam smiled. "Tickles." He shifted. Then, more soberly, "And I feel . . . loved . . . and . . . vulnerable." He swallowed, rattled at his own honesty. The angel drew his hand away, and Sam fought the urge to put it back. Gabriel studied where Sam's palm rested on his chest.

"It feels warm. Rough." He concentrated, and Sam got the impression he was trying hard to sift through alien sensations. "But not vulnerable, not like . . ."

"When you were sick," Sam finished for him, his heart breaking a little at all the damage he had caused.

When Gabriel nodded, Sam leaned over and kissed him, long and lingering until he gave up one of those delicious moans. He was going to make this good. To make up for what he'd done. To give Gabriel what he wanted. Simply because he cared and wanted to see him happy. He was shocked at how much that mattered.

Sam drew back and sat up, his partner's erection lying against his body before him, somehow threatening and ordinary. Sam contemplated it and then reached out, rubbing a hand across Gabriel's chest. Gabriel touched his arm encouragingly and made a pleased sound as Sam rubbed circles down his stomach. He should be able to do this, he thought. Without fear, without hesitation. His knuckles brushed the tip of Gabriel's cock, and Gabriel jerked. He felt his eyes on him, and then a hand stroking his thigh. But there was a line here. He hadn't ever . . . and if he did, there was no undoing this, no going back. You couldn't untouch another guy's dick and go back to who you were. His face might look in the same in a mirror, but behind the eyes . . . changed. Sam drew light, tense breaths. He wasn't who he was. He could do this. Wanted to.

It wasn't as strange as he thought it might be. Gabriel's cock was hot and heavy in his hand. Silky, as he pumped it once with a familiar motion. Gabriel groaned and thrust, but Sam stopped. And after a second he started to chuckle.

"You laugh at me at the strangest times," Gabriel rumbled, his voice huskier than normal. He squeezed on Sam's leg.

Sam glanced over. "I . . ." He huffed and smiled, slowly turning red. "You're uncircumcised. I mean, obviously. It's just . . . I never knew what that would look like." He finished lamely, cowering in embarrassment. Why would he know? The only dick he had any experience with was his own. So, yeah.

Gabriel laughed lightly. "I have a different covenant with God." But he lay still, waiting, more patient than anyone else might have been.

An awkward moment passed with Sam staring and not really moving his hand. And then he blinked, coming to himself, and stroked. His partner's breathing hitched, and he followed the pressure of Sam's hand. He pulled easily, gently, playing with the extra skin. Sam stroked over the slit, earning a gasp and delicious moan. Did it again to make him shudder. He gripped harder, _slippedslipped_ and Gabriel whimpered, rubbing a hand up and down Sam's leg.

He could do this. He could do _better _than this. Sam shifted to his knees, and it brought his head frightfully close to the angel's cock. He stopped pumping his hand, and his partner relaxed back with a sigh.

He froze, eyeing the exposed head of Gabriel's cock with fear. Because this too was something you couldn't ever undo. This too would be indelible, mark him a stranger to himself. He wasn't sure he even wanted to do it in the first place, but if he'd been in Gabriel's place, he'd have wanted _him _to. Hell, he'd dreamed about it a few times already. Sam licked his lips.

"Sam . . ." Gabriel breathed his name at the hesitation and touched his arm and face. "You don't—"

Sam cut him a look. No, he didn't. But what was giving without a little sacrifice.

Trepidation skittered on spider's legs up Sam's spine as he lowered slowly and cautiously took just the tip of his partner's cock in his mouth. Gabriel shuddered and clenched his hands at his side, which was encouraging. It tasted strange, not entirely bad. A little like salt, a little like skin. He swirled his tongue lightly, not sure. Gabriel groaned out a deep animal rumble. He did it again, a little harder, took in a tiny bit more and then sucked as he drew up. He could do this. And went to do it again.

Moaning, Gabriel thrust on instinct.

Sam made a strangled sound and jerked back, gasping more in fright than anything.

"I'm sorry," the angel panted and buried a hand in Sam's hair.

Fear ran high through Sam's body, like he'd been attacked. His breath shuddered. He leaned into the touch and braced a hand on his partner's chest. "S'ok. I . . ." _Had a dick in my mouth and wasn't used to it?_ He half smirked and gave the saliva-slicked tip of Gabriel's cock a determined look. The fingers rubbing circles on his scalp drew back, probably to ward off temptation. Sam thanked him with a glance, then wrapped a strong hand around the base and started to lick a second time.

He knew what felt good, what could feel amazing, and tried to mirror things that had been done to him, with tongue, with teeth. Gabriel slowly unraveled. Unable to buck, he writhed. Twisted on the rock, pressed and gripped his hands as he broke into a sweat. Sam's name blended with whimpers and moans, hot breathless exaltations. Sam stopped when he felt him start to tremble.

He stretched out again at his side and pillowed Gabriel's head on his hand so he could crush him into a kiss.

"Hey," Sam breathed, drinking in this sight of his partner's flushed skin and reddened lips. "Tell me what you want."

_For you to love me_, flew quickly to Gabriel's tongue, but he hesitated on speaking such words.

Sam sensed a reticence and read it as embarrassment.

He nuzzled close. "It's okay. I wanna know. I can't do this right if I don't." And he was going to do this right. Even if it killed him, he'd be the man an archangel thought he was.

"You are doing it right."

But there was something else. Sam could see some unspoken want lurking in his partner's eyes. As pretext, he dotted a kiss on his cheek. Then he lingered, panting in Gabriel's ear. He let his fingers trace over his sternum, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. _Tell me_. And suddenly he ached with not knowing. He twined their legs together and rubbed his body along Gabriel's side in one rocking stroke. _Tell me_.

Sam touched his lips, delicate and scorching, to Gabriel's ear and rumbled low, nearly inaudible. "Do you like it when I'm inside you?"

Gabriel shuddered and arched against him.

"Or . . ." Sam drew back slightly to watch his face. "I could use just my hands?" He traced around one nipple and watched his partner's eyelids flutter. He stroked down to his hip, making him arch and squirm. "Or my mouth."

"_You_ wouldn't like that," Gabriel managed to say, meeting Sam's dark eyes.

"I could learn," he breathed, and stepped his fingers lightly up damp angelic skin. "I'd do it anyway." He traced the contours of one pec, both their gazes following the motion.

"And . . . if I wanted to be inside you?" Gabriel's voice pitched to a whisper.

Sam froze, his gaze locking on his stilled fingers. Unease and fear flickered across his face. That. "Umm. Then . . ." His voice was light, almost not his own. He could say no. Be a coward. He couldn't even name what he was afraid of, but it still made his fingertips tremble. "I guess . . . I'd let you try. If—if that's what you want." He swallowed and glanced up. "Is it?"

Something fierce and tender shone in Gabriel's eyes. "No," he said, and pulled Sam on top of him with casual strength. His legs parted, welcoming Sam's body and weight. Large hands massaged up and down Sam's back, gripped at his ass.

Sam hovered and then ground into the electric heat of the angel's body. "Still didn't answer my question."

A smile. "I trust you."

Sam might actually have moaned. He wanted rhythm, needed rhythm. Kissed, kissed, kissed, rocking, down the angel's neck, drew his tongue slightly over the hollow shell at his throat and felt a shiver. Sam molded his hands gently to the architecture of Gabriel's ribs. He swirled his hot tongue over one nipple and felt his partner gasp. Sensitive here. He remembered. Took the tight pebble between his teeth and bit. Gabriel gasped again, digging his fingers into Sam's hair, and pressed his head down. He bit harder until the pain sparked and his partner arched with a throaty cry. His fingers trembled in Sam's hair, and Sam smiled wickedly. He should've done this before, but was almost glad he'd waited until now. He went for the other, licking, nipping, teasing. Bit hard, harder, harder. _Gasp! _The angel's whole body reverberated pleasure.

He slid up so their lips met in a greedy and devouring kiss. So wet, so hot. Sam pulled back, panting, and gazed into Gabriel's eyes as he placed two fingers against the angel's mouth. Gabriel surged and sucked them in, swirling his tongue, tasting the tips. _Fuck_. He was like a porn star sometimes. It shouldn't feel so good, but _Christ_, he couldn't breathe. Sam groaned and thrust against his partner's hip in time with the pull and laves of his tongue.

Heat wrapped around Sam's limbs, energizing as he broke out into a sweat. He could come just like this, Gabriel's skin burning him alive. Gabriel sucked hard, fluttering his eyes and looking wanton, rocking with Sam's unconscious motion. _Jesus_. That was so wrong. Sam slipped his fingers out and watched Gabriel's expression as he brought them to his mouth, adding a bit of saliva of his own. The angel's eyes flashed, lips parted, and he shivered.

Sam shifted, grinning when his partner opened further in silent begging. Sam touched teasingly along his cock making him moan, slid a finger slowly along until he found a tight pucker of muscle. Gabriel arched, whimpering quietly, and Sam kissed the corner of his mouth.

"Okay?"

A stuttering nod and strong hand gripping the back of his neck. Sam fit their mouths together and pressed his finger in with languorous intrusion, breathing in sighs to taste the color of their emotion. Each stroke a different flavor, a sigh, a nip. When he touched the right spot, a gasp, arching, and darting of tongues. Two fingers, and Gabriel tore his lips away to _pantpant_ and cry out. He turned his head away, exposing the tender flesh of his neck—an act of submission. Sam marked him with tongue and teeth, the angel's hands rubbed, roving his body.

Drunk, shaking, Gabriel managed words between pleasured sighs. "Enough. Don't tease me." He heaved and flexed his limbs as Sam pushed his fingers deep, touching an erogenous zone.

No teasing.

Sam's own breath came in heavy draughts, and he _ached_. He'd been pushing it aside, intent instead on the song of his partner's fragmentation. And Gabriel did look shattered, sweating and shivering with need. Sam withdrew his hand and adjusted the odd angle at which their bodies met, lifting his partner's hips slightly so his cock nestled against the cleft of Gabriel's ass. The angel was only too happy to comply, use his strength to their advantage.

One long, heavy moment of breaching, Sam sliding inside, and they groaned together. God, Gabriel was hot and perfect. Sam bit his lip and rocked, almost pulling out, slowly, sinking back in faster.

It couldn't have been that long since he'd last buried himself, burning in the angel's heat. Somehow he missed it, missed reeling with ecstatic fire. He laid himself down, hungry for a kiss, and found himself wrapped in an embrace. He moved with control at first, pumping slowly, tasting on Gabriel's tongue when he hit the right place. Then faster, angling and slamming them together.

Gabriel broke off a kiss. "Harder."

Sam leaned in all his weight, arching like a cat, pulling his partner in by his shoulders. Breathe. Breathe. He shook it was so hot, so hard to move. Gabriel's cries echoed through the cave, loud, desirous, unashamed. He was so responsive, so _vocal_. Sam felt masterful and humbled at once. He had wrought this breaking joy, and he thrust up hard to hear it again, adding moans of his own so that for just a moment they were one animal.

New aches broke out across his body. He ignored them until they hurt, until the snap of his hips was more pain than pleasure. He thrust in hard, grunting with the effort, and collapsed forward, curling and laughing against Gabriel's neck.

"What?" the angel breathed into his ear, holding him close as they panted together. "Sam?"

He chuckled, shaking his head at himself. "My knees hurt." It was absurd, but they were on a rock shelf, and he was only human.

Gabriel made low, thoughtful sound and held Sam tighter to his chest. He shifted, binding him with a leg, and in an instant the world spun. Sam found himself on his back, being laid gently down. Gabriel straddled his hips, sunk as deeply on his cock as he had ever been. He looked clever and commanding, pressing a palm against Sam's chest as he adjusted to the new position.

"Better?" The archangel gazed down, grinning.

Sam rubbed his hands up his partner's thighs gratefully and smiled. "Think so." _Liar_. It was _so much _better.

Now he was free to touch, fill his hands with flexing muscle. Now he could really _see_. He thought Gabriel had looked wanton before only because he'd never been looking up at him watching pleasure, effort and relief form expressions on his face as he rocked himself up on impossibly strong legs and thrust himself down. He was making his own rhythm. _Rideslidehitchgrind. _Rolling his hips to grind his ass down harder, like he'd grown up in a fucking whorehouse. Sam groaned behind a bit lip, taking his own pleasure. Gabriel rode Sam expertly, rising and exposing the white column of his throat, slipping back down, uttering nonsense.

He picked up the pace, threw himself forward, bracing his arms above Sam's head. Sam could only try to keep up, pinching, rubbing, taking Gabriel's dick in his hand. All thoughts blasted from his brain. Coiling heat, mounting pressure. He wanted, _wanted_. He panted and jerked. _So hot. C'mon_.

Gabriel pressed him into the ground, so he could ride him harder. Sam was sure this was how he was going to die: pinned to a rock ledge, fucked by an angel. He squeezed, pulled slick on Gabriel's cock, and the angel's steady rhythm came apart. He stuttered, groaned, threw his head back, and came, his arms buckling so he hovered with barely and space between them. _Pant. Gasp._ Sam pulled him down the rest of the way, running his clean hand along the angel's back, feeling the muscles quiver. Gabriel opened his eyes, breathing raggedly.

"You're gorgeous." Sam told him, and he lifted his head, grinning faintly. "And handsome," he added, cause that was different. The grin broadened. "And _God _are you hot."

At that, the angel laughed lightly, and he slowly smiled, seductive and beatific. He moved like a cat, sitting back, impaling himself. Their gazes locked, and Sam arched up off the stone as he was sheathed. His heart _poundpounded_ his chest as his partner squeezed down on him, hard, and lifted himself up. A sharp breath, and a deep groan tore Sam's throat. _Holy shit_. A second time, and he had to close his eyes, his vision bubbling with black. The movements were slow, but _Christ_ he wrung out pleasure. Sam's moans melted into whimpers, into pleading. His skin hurt, fingers tingled. Gabriel was so _tight_, God, he couldn't, he couldn't . . . Gabriel's tongue touched on Sam's neck, the weak place, that _spot_. Sam arched, shaking, torn between sensations. He climaxed like crumbling, missed the peak, but thrust up dissolving into relief. It might not have been the hardest orgasm, or the longest, but he was pretty sure it was his favorite.

_Mmm._

_Breathe . . ._

_Breathe._

He opened his eyes to find Gabriel watching him, still straddling his hips. The angel's lips twitched into a smile, and Sam smiled back, for a moment just basking. Then he slapped him on the thigh to make him move, regretting a little when his cock slipped free. Then he eased himself, groaning, into the steaming hot tub they'd made of the Fountain of Youth.

"C'mere." Sam motioned lazily, splashing. He sank low in the water, until it covered his shoulders.

Gabriel slipped into the pool without a sound or misplaced drop. He gave Sam a curious look, and let himself be guided when Sam pulled him into his lap. Sam wrapped his arms around the angel's chest and waist, holding the rigid body awkwardly. He gave it a few seconds, then huffed a laugh.

"Relax, would you?" He rubbed his hands encouragingly.

Gabriel's shoulders unwound some, and he sank a little lower, but it was like he was waiting for something, for the next stage. He held himself ready for whatever that unexpected action might be.

Sam grinned fondly nuzzled the short hairs behind his ear. "You asked me to make love to you, right?" he said softly.

The archangel nodded and turned his head as though to listen further.

"Well"—Sam hugged him—"this is part of that. Sometimes the best part." He watched as Gabriel thought it over and sighed in relief when the tension melted out of him. He'd forgotten to miss this. Ruby had mingled sex and blood and addiction, which was powerful and overwhelming, dangerous and passionate.

Sam rested against Gabriel's neck, safe, and was shocked at the ache of nostalgia for such a feeling.

They lounged for a while in comfortable silence. Gabriel traced patterns on the water's surface, thinking thoughts Sam wondered if he'd understand. Sam had thoughts of his own, too, though. He'd just done a whole lot of things he'd never thought he'd do. Didn't really regret it. No, definitely didn't regret it. But didn't know quite what it meant, either.

He rested his face against the back of Gabriel's neck as he worked up his courage. The angel didn't seem surprised when he finally spoke.

"What are we doing?" Sam asked lowly.

Gabriel shifted around until they were looking at one another.

"I mean us," Sam hurried on, "Are we . . ." He frowned. "Is this just sex?"

The angel took a breath to answer, but Sam cut him off. "And don't tell me it's whatever _I _want it to be."

Gabriel exhaled and said nothing, waiting patiently as always.

Anger sparked in Sam's chest at that unflappable patience, but he forced himself to let it go and felt overtaken by a wave of weariness in its wake. "What do you want from me?" he asked in a small voice. "There are billions of people on the planet. Why me?"

Sorrow touched the corners of Gabriel's dark eyes and he looked away. "We've been over that."

"We have?" Sam tightened his hold, and Gabriel glanced back at him.

He measured his words carefully. "Do you remember when you asked why I could forgive you?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. 'Course. You asked me who loved me. And I said Dean and Bobby. And you said a father and a brother and asked me if that was enough."

"And what did you say?"

"No."

Gabriel nodded like he had the first time, something knowing and distantly sad in the reach of his gaze. Sam felt the wheels turn, snapping into place as he watched him. What an _idiot_. Why hadn't he seen it before? Self-centeredness, he thought bitterly. But he saw it now.

Sam let him turn back around, so they were back to chest. "What do you _want, _Gabriel?"

The angel's whole body rose and fell in a sigh. He took a long time in answering. "Someone who will cry for me," he said.

Sam's heart clenched in pain, and he rested again against the back of Gabriel's neck. It was honest, and since Sam felt tears stinging his eyes at the rawness of the declaration, maybe he was the right guy for the job after all.

He sniffed and lifted his head to speak. "I wish I could see you, the real you . . . Like I did in that mirror. You were . . . I don't know. I couldn't stop looking."

"That wasn't my true self. It was just a piece. The small portion that leaks through into this plane to take a vessel."

Sam shrugged, sloshing water. "I still wish I could see you."

Gabriel whipped around sharply, and Sam jumped. "No, you don't," he bit out. "I'm _terrible,_ do you understand? Devastating. I'm the angel of fury, Sam. Vengeance and blistering fire." He clutched Sam's face. "You can never, ever see me. Not in my true form."

Sam stared at him, eyes wide and fearful, his pulse suddenly racing. He tried to pull back, and the gesture made Gabriel let him go. The angel dropped his head, embarrassed, and turned back around. Sam's embrace had come free, but Gabriel took his hands and placed them back where they had been. As Sam's terror dropped, he pulled him a little closer under his own power.

He cautiously touched his lips to a part of Gabriel's shoulder above the water and paused, thoughtful. Then, "I can't do this if I don't know you. It isn't right." Maybe that didn't mean seeing true forms. He didn't know. Just . . . fuck it, he _cared_. That's all he'd wanted to say.

Gabriel dropped his head back against Sam's shoulder. "Then know me."


	10. Chapter 10

Gabriel stood outside a motel in a decent little town in Maryland, leaning against the worn decorative fencing separating him from the parking lot. His . . . friends, he toyed with the word . . . had taken refuge where they were unlikely to be noticed. After Hanover, they needed rest.

He turned to the sound of Castiel slipping out of the motel room. He wore only his suit pants and unbuttoned dress shirt against the frosting temperatures of a bitter cold snap. The chill passed its hand by both of them, unable to touch.

"You called?" Gabriel asked lightly.

His brother nodded vaguely, watching him, and he bore the scrutiny with interest.

"You know, you could have come inside," Castiel said at last.

With a small smile, the archangel turned and sent his gaze back out over the parking lot. He could have.

"Dean . . . knows about—" Cas started, uncertainly.

Oh, Castiel. Gabriel laughed lightly at his brother's concern and gave him a sympathetic glance. "I'm not being modest, brother." Careful, maybe. But it wasn't Dean's opinions that weighed on his mind, regardless.

"Oh," the other answered, then moved to stand closer at his side. "I . . . wanted to thank you. For healing Dean."

Gabriel looked over at him briefly and nodded. There was no real need for thanks between them, but the lesser angel's soul radiated with gratitude and love all the same, and these things felt like home. "So . . . Azgrathan is really gone, then?"

"Yes." Castiel stared out into the parking lot along with him.

Gabriel nodded silently, remembering. Then, "He's been missed for a long time."

Castiel blinked at the passing cars. "I remember him as heat. Not fire, just . . ."

"Warmth." Gabriel nodded, sighed.

They lapsed into silence. Castiel looked back at the motel room, then out at the empty night.

"What do you want to ask?" Gabriel said at the small sound of his brother's sigh, a human trait he wondered if he'd noticed yet.

Castiel hesitated and leaned more heavily against the fence. "Is it wise what you're doing with Sam?"

_Wise? _Gabriel shot him a surprised look, at first imperious, indignant, then curious. "What do you want to _know_, Castiel."

Cas set his jaw, still not looking over. "Why do you trust him?"

Gabriel shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders. "He means well."

"He set Lucifer free!" Castiel's anger flared in his expression and his soul. He turned with clenched fists.

Gabriel gazed back with a smothering calm. "His mistakes are a child's mistakes."

"They are _big _mistakes," came the growled reply.

"They are children's, nonetheless." Gabriel chuckled at himself, shaking his head, and gave Castiel a fond smile. "I think I can handle one human, I raised angels, for God's sake."

Castiel's face pinched in annoyance and he turned to the parking lot again, gripping the metal fence in too strong hands. "So . . . you think he'll learn." His tone was a little flatter than usual.

Gabriel kicked the ground and peered out at the Impala parked in the lot. "He's not stupid, Castiel."

"Just reckless."

The archangel slanted his brother a narrow-eyed look. "So are you," he said, though it lacked the real heat of argument.

Castiel bristled and fell silent. Gabriel sensed the turmoil in his soul, the anger, despair, and reluctant acquiescence. He loosened the tight control over his powers and essence, touching briefly the glow of his grace. Almost imperceptibly, Castiel turned toward it and relaxed, eventually saying quietly, "I thought you were going to die."

"I know." The archangel dropped his gaze to his feet. "I'm sorry. And thank you for not listening to me."

They both knew he meant the Scourging. "It was a stupid idea, and you were delirious."

Gabriel shrugged. "I thought it was the right thing."

"You were delirious."

Gabriel found his brother smiling faintly at him, and he considered the matter settled. They resumed studying the stationery cars with sacred silence.

"You took quite a gamble on the fountain," Gabriel eventually murmured.

"It was a calculated risk."

"We both would've died if you were wrong."

"I wasn't reckless."

"No." Gabriel smirked. "Just frightened."

The motel room door suddenly opened, and Sam stuck his head out, mop of hair a mess. "Hey, guys, you know we can actually _see _you through the window, right?"

The angels both turned to stare at him.

"I mean, you don't _have _to stand out here. You could come in."

_"Sam!" _Dean's voice bellowed from the room's interior. _"Close the frickin' door!"_

Castiel gave his brother a small, self-righteous smile that was promptly ignored and slipped around Sam, briefly opening the door even wider, letting in an arctic blast.

_"Sam!"_

The man hovered in the doorway, rolling his eyes, and grinning with a secretive kind of glee. Gabriel gave him an unsure look. "Perhaps I'll go," he said.

The childlike expression lighting Sam's face instantly fell, dragging Gabriel's heart with it. Sam tried to cover with a nod. "Yeah. Sure. If you want. Prolly got big angel things to do." He shrugged sympathetically.

_"Sam!"_

"Shut up, Dean!" Sam turned back, trying not to look ashamed of his idiot brother.

Truth was, Gabriel didn't have anything pressing. "You don't have to feel obligated—"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dude. I don't feel 'obligated.' I'm asking if you want to come inside." He opened the door a little wider, and there was an annoyed shout from beyond where Gabriel could see.

The angel smiled and stepped closer, warmed by the offer. "You're sure?"

Sam grinned easily, despite the fact that his teeth had started to rattle because of the cold. "I want you to." And he slipped back into the warmth of the room.

Smiling to himself, Gabriel followed.


End file.
